


All That Glitters

by lyriumlovesong



Series: The Rabbit and The Lion [19]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Agent Acquired, Blood and Injury, Cliche French phrases, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dorian Pavus is a Good Friend, F/M, Food, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Jealousy, Just a bit of light treason, Minor Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Minor Violence, Original Character(s), Orlesian Culture and Customs, Orlesians, Orlesians are the worst as usual, Plot Twists, Protective Cullen Rutherford, Serious Injuries, Servants, The Grand Game, Thedosian Culture and Customs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-03-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 03:15:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 42,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16925460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyriumlovesong/pseuds/lyriumlovesong
Summary: When the Orlesian delegates arrive, Freya is occupied with diplomatic duties, while Cullen is tasked with entertaining a very pretty, very persistant nobleman's daughter.Before beginning this story, it will be helpful to have read the rest of the series, particularlyWrath of the LionandEir'melana.





	1. Off the Mark

It was nearly a week into Haring before the passages through the Frostbacks could be cleared. Winter was by no means over, but the worst of the storms had passed, and the residents of Skyhold were delighted to have access to fresh food and supplies again.

The weather outside was still cold, but no longer the kind of cold that numbs your fingertips or, as Sera had so eloquently put it, “Freezes your snot the whole way down.”

She and Freya were out in the practice yard, firing arrows into dummies and sharing a bowl of fresh cherries. Well, _Sera_ was firing arrows into dummies. Freya was just firing arrows.

“You’re shit at this, Buckles,” Sera said, looking equal parts amused and exasperated as she noted all the shafts sticking out of the snow where arrows had launched over and to the sides of Freya’s target. “Probably because you’re holding your bow all stupid.”

“What’s wrong with the way I’m holding it?”

“There’s not a lot _not_ wrong with it,” she said, walking over next to Freya and pointing to the hand holding the grip. “First off, you’re strangling it. Loosen up a little, yeah? And put your elbow back where it belongs.” She grabbed Freya’s elbow and rotated it toward the Inquisitor’s body. “You’re pulling with your fingers too much on the string. That’s why you have arms. Fingers to hold arrows steady, arms to give them wings.”

Freya adjusted her grip on the string, loosening the tension in her fingers as she aimed and pulled back. She let the arrow fly. It stuck the dummy, but just barely, landing in its shoulder.

“Well, at least you _hit_ it that time,” said Sera. “Good thing you’re better at knives than arrows.”

Freya smiled, plucking a pair of dark red cherries out of the bowl, their skins cold to the touch from sitting so close to the snowy ground. She handed one to Sera. “We can’t all be archery prodigies, I suppose,” she said. 

Sera took the cherry and put it between her teeth, tugging it off its stem and pulling it into her mouth. She chewed on it thoughtfully, turning her head to the side to spit the stone out into the snow.

“Boy, real food tastes nice,” she said. “All that canned stuff isn’t good for much, except not starving.”

“Agreed,” said Freya. “And it’s a good thing we got something in before the Orlesians arrive.”

Sera shot her a sidelong glance.

“That’s soon, yeah?” she asked.

“Couple of days.”

“Briala’s not so bad. I remember her from the Empress’s party. Elfy, but not _too_ elfy, right? And she’s funny.”

Freya nodded, picking out another cherry.

“I don’t mind her.”

“No, I expect it’s the other one you’re worried about. That rich nob’s daughter, Lady Can’t-Take-No-For-An-Answer.”

“Who say’s I’m worried?” asked Freya, turning to look at Sera.

“Your face.”

Freya was silent, chewing.

“They always think they’re entitled to things, people like her. Think they’re entitled to other _people_ , too. Saw more than plenty of that in Val Royeaux. But you know Cully’s got his head on right, yeah? He’s wound so tight ‘round your little finger it’s amazing it hasn’t fallen off.”

Sera watched Freya’s face. The corner of her mouth had twitched at that last sentence, but she still didn’t look wholly convinced.

“Josephine wants him to ‘keep her happy’ while she’s here,’ said Freya. “Which means they’ll probably be spending a lot of quality time together. Supposedly, she’s coming under the pretense that Comte Marchand has donated a huge amount of money to our military arm, and she’s being sent to make sure her father’s money is being put to good use. But nobody really believes that’s the reason.”

“Why can’t Cully just tell her to piss off? Other nobs have got money.”

“Well,” said Freya, walking to her dummy to retrieve the dozen or so arrows scattered around it, “after the whole mess with Blackwall, things in Orlais got a bit… _strained_. Our support there is a lot more tenuous than it was after we left the Winter Palace. The Empress has still pledged her aid, but with the nobles, monetary assistance is not quite as solid. So by at least receiving Lady Marchand cordially, we’re hoping to make it more so.”

“Seems a shite reason to let her walk in and flirt with someone who doesn’t want flirted with.”

“You’re not wrong.”

Freya tossed her arrows into a pile. Grabbing another pair of cherries out of the bowl, she shared one with Sera again.

“I might be crap with a bow, but I'll bet you a pint I can spit a stone farther than you,” she said.

Sera could tell Freya wanted the subject changed, so she accepted the cherry and dragged her foot in a line through the snow. Turning with her toes on the line, she popped the cherry in her mouth and chewed, gnawing the fruit off the stone.

“Alright, Buckles. Let’s see what you got.”

Freya took her place beside Sera, mashing the tart fruit in her mouth to extract its seed. The hard little stone clicked against her teeth as she positioned it.

“On three,” Sera said. She held up one finger, then two, then--

“Inquisitor!”

There was a hollow thwupping sound as Freya, jumping at the sound, spit her seed wildly in a diagonal trajectory and watched as it ricocheted off a tree and dropped to the ground. Sera, meanwhile, appeared to have inhaled in her surprise instead and was currently doubled over, spluttering on hers. Freya quickly whacked her on the back, and the seed flew straight down into the snow between Sera’s boots.

“That doesn’t count!” Sera insisted, face red and eyes streaming.

Freya turned to see Josephine Montilyet, Ambassador to the Inquisition, dressed in bulky layers and a thick woolen snood, approaching with a long scroll of parchment and her quill poised at the ready in one mittened hand.

“I didn’t realize you had archery practice today,” she said, turning to look at the pile of arrows in the snow.

“It’s more recreational than anything,” Freya said, handing Sera a handkerchief so she could dab at her eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m going over the menu for the welcome dinner. We’re trying to incorporate foods from all over Ferelden and I noticed there’s nothing representative of the Dalish. I thought you might want to incorporate one of your traditional dishes.”

“Well,” Freya said, retrieving the bowl of cherries from the ground, “I’m not Ferelden. My clan was from the Free Marches.”

“True, but you’re the Inquisitor. Your people should be honored at the table.”

“Well," she replied, thinking. "Erm… we could do a dish of Forest Comfort? It’s technically a traditional dish of the Orlesian Dalish, but at this point, it’s pretty universally enjoyed among all the clans.”

“Isn’t that stuff about nine parts vegetable out of ten?” asked Sera, pulling a face.

“It’s got halla cheese in it, too,” Freya replied, sounding defensive. “It’s _good_.”

“Regrettably, Lady Marchand is severely allergic to pine nuts,” Josephine said, looking apologetic.

“I’ll keep _that_ in mind,” replied Freya. “What about hearth cakes, then?”   


“I think those are traditionally more of a breakfast food, are they not?”

“Well, if you’re going to be picky about it, yes.”

Josephine appeared to ponder this for another moment, then brightened.

“What about dishes of halla butter to accompany the loaves the bakers are making with wheat from the Bannorn?”

_Butter_. Here she was, the leader of the Inquisition and arguably the most powerful person in southern Thedas, and the only thing good enough to represent her culture was their _butter_. Her people’s whole history, reduced to a condiment.

“Of course,” Josephine was saying now, scribbling notes on the parchment, “halla butter has a very distinct flavor and not everyone enjoys it, so we’ll have to have some regular cow’s butter as well.”

...Make that a _secondary_ condiment.

“Yeah. Sure,” Freya said, trying to hide the annoyance in her voice as she passed the bowl of cherries to Sera and began to gather up the arrows. “Whatever makes everyone happy.”

“Perfect!” Josephine continued jotting things down as she made to turn toward the keep again. “I’ll see you in the war room in a little while for our afternoon meeting. Oh, and if you run into our Commander, could you send him to my office? I’d like to give him some guidance on ettiquette for when he’s escorting Lady Marchand.”

**_SNAP._ **

Freya and Sera both looked down at the arrow in Freya’s hand, which was now in two pieces, one of which was dangling from the other by one thin strip of intact wood. Josephine, her ears covered by the snood, seemed not to have heard and kept walking on her path back to the castle.

“Not to stick my nose where it shouldn’t be sniffing, Buckles,” said Sera, gingerly taking the broken arrow from Freya’s hands, “but I think you should really just talk to him.”


	2. Trust

“I can’t believe Josephine is asking you to show Aceline around the keep. Of all the people who could be playing tour guide, she picks  _you_.”

Freya tossed aside the sheaf of paper she was holding, a scowl distorting her features. She was sitting on the edge of the war table in an uncharacteristically sulky posture. Meetings had been tense with the arrival of the Orlesian delegation looming, and this afternoon's had been no exception--especially with the butter discussion that morning having put her in a rotten mood to begin with.

“Well, I’d be lying if I said I was  _thrilled_  with the idea,” Cullen conceded, leaning against the table next to her. “But you've heard Josie. It’s very important to Briala that Lady Marchand be kept happy and entertained. You know her father has given a lot of financial support to the Inquisition.”

“And this is all okay with you? You’re the commander of the Inquisition troops and Josephine's demoted you to  _Personal-Escort-for-Some-Nobleman’s-Entitled-Brat_.”

Cullen turned to look at her and was surprised to see her eyes flashing with ire.

“You’re really upset about this,” he said, notes of both surprise and concern in his voice.

“You know,” she said, meeting his eyes, “you aren’t the  _only_  one who receives marriage proposals. Every day, I get some nobody of a Bann who thinks he can catapult his status by wedding the Inquisitor.”

“I suspected as much,” Cullen said with a shrug. “Someone as beautiful as you, and in your powerful position, would be the most desirable woman in all of Thedas to a lot of men. Present company included.”

She ignored the compliment, plowing on angrily.

“And how do you think you would like it if Josephine asked _me_ to dress up and hang all over one of them for a few days to ‘keep them happy’? How would you feel knowing that I was being used as arm candy for some crusty old noble to drool over, all in the name of financial security for the Inquisition?”

“I’d be ruffled,” he admitted, thinking to himself that this was probably the biggest understatement he’d ever uttered.  The mental picture alone was infuriating enough that he was subconsciously clenching his fists. 

He’d be furious. He’d want to drink himself to the bottom of a keg and then punch something until his gauntlets dented.

“ _But_ ,” he continued, “I would also recognize that you are a strong woman capable of making her own choices about this sort of thing. And if you thought the needs of the Inquisition were more important than my feelings on the matter, I would respect that and allow you to do what was asked of you without making you feel worse about it.”

Freya was silent, avoiding his gaze now and chewing angrily on her lower lip.

“If I couldn’t put my own emotions aside for the good of the Inquisition, Freya,” he went on, pointing toward the door of the war room, “I would never let you walk out that gate again. Sitting here in the castle while you go out and risk your life, thinking about how my world might be ripped apart in a matter of seconds, without me even knowing until days later when a raven arrives to tell us that you–-” He broke off, shaking his head. “Maker, I can’t even say it… It’s  _torture_  for me, every single time I have to say goodbye. But I have to let it happen. Because this war is bigger than me. Bigger than  _any_  of us.”

Gods, how could he constantly be this selfless? Always the Inquisition, above all else. She wanted to be angry with him for it, but instead she just found herself feeling ashamed for not being nearly so altruistic.

“Rations,” he went on, ticking off a list on his fingers, “supplies, weapons, repairs and maintenance on the castle, paying our troops and the people who work here at the keep. All of it takes gold. A  _lot_  of it. You know that as well as I do. And if I can ensure that we keep getting it by walking around the castle with some delusional Orlesian for a few days, I’m willing.”

She was staring at the floor now, studying the pattern on the rug in front of the table.

“Do you trust me?”

The question took her by surprise. Looking up at him again, she gave him a disbelieving look.

“That’s not the point, Cullen.”

“And  _that’s_  not an answer,” he replied. “ _Do you trust me?_ ”

More shame washed over her. If he was honestly asking her this question, she obviously hadn’t done a good enough job of conveying how deeply she loved her Commander, how much faith she had in his fidelity.

“Of  _course_  I trust you, Cullen. More than anyone. It’s just this other woman that I don’t–”

“ _It shouldn’t matter_  who else I’m around,” Cullen interjected. “If you trust me, it shouldn’t make a difference.”

He had come around to stand in front of her, and he brushed her cheek with one gloved hand.

“I don’t care who they send to tempt me,” he told her, tangling his hand into her curls now and putting his lips against her ear so that his warm breath tingled against her skin with every word. “Nobody else could turn my head. Not when I’m lucky enough to share my bed with the most beautiful woman in all of Thedas. And if you need convincing, I’d be happy to take you up to your chambers and demonstrate the full measure of my adoration.”

She was smiling now, in spite of herself, and a slight pink tinge warmed her cheeks.

“I don’t know,” she said quietly. “My chambers are _awfully_ far away. Maybe you should just demonstrate here.”

When he met her gaze this time, there was no more anger on her face–just a mischievous little smirk and a dare sparkling in her eyes. He cocked his head to one side, returning her grin.

“I serve at the pleasure of the Inquisitor,” he said, giving her a bow. 

He walked over to the door and quietly turned the lock.


	3. Sil'dirthal

The sharp tang of vinegar in the cold air met Cullen’s nose before he even opened the door to the armory. He gave a nod of greeting to the quartermaster, and the soft, swishing scratch of fine sand being rubbed over metal met his ears as he entered.

“Cass?” he called out toward the room above, closing the door behind him. “You up there?”

“I am, should I come down? Or would you like to come up?”

He climbed the steps, rounding the corner to see the Seeker seated at a table with her armor in front of her, polishing her intricately patterned pauldrons with a vinegar-and-sand mixture on an old rag.

“Commander,” she said by way of greeting, not looking up from her task. She gestured to the chair opposite her, and Cullen pulled it out, the worn legs screeching a little as they scraped against the wooden floor.

“You’re working hard,” he observed, watching as she pushed the sand into the fine details of her armor with the cloth.

“Yes, well.” She pursed her lips, and Cullen recognized the expression she wore when she was trying hard to figure out how to say something without sounding disrespectful of her colleagues. “Josephine emphasized to me how _important_ it is to look our best this week while the Orlesians are here.”

“Did she also give you the _‘Be on your best behavior’_ lecture, or was that just me?”

“Oh, it wasn’t just _you_ ,” replied the Seeker with a smirk. “You should’ve heard the commotion from the tavern when she went to talk to Sera.”

“I bet _that_ conversation went pear-shaped fast.”

“Rather.”

He watched her polish and scrub for a moment in silence until finally, she looked up at him.

“Surely you didn’t come all the way down here just to watch me clean my pauldrons?”

“Er, no,” he admitted, straightening.

Cassandra used fresh vinegar to wipe the sand off her armor, then passed one of the pieces to Cullen along with a thick woolen cloth. She nodded at a pot of lanolin on the table.

“You can make yourself useful while we talk,” she said, dipping her own cloth into the pot and buffing the thick, oily substance into the shining metal surface. “What’s on your mind?”

“I’m just thinking about this business with Lady Marchand.”

Cassandra made a noise in her throat that was halfway between a scoff and a growl and muttered something that sounded like _“Ridiculous.”_

“The whole thing makes me uncomfortable, but it’s nothing to how it’s making Freya feel. She’s so angry and upset over it. I’m a little taken aback, to be perfectly honest. It’s not like her to be this jealous.”

“Have you ever stopped to consider that there’s more to it than jealousy?” asked Cassandra, glancing up from her work with an eyebrow raised.

“Er—no, I suppose I hadn’t,” he admitted, pausing mid-rub with a quizzical look on his face. “Why, what else would it be?”

“Well, it’s _humiliating_ , isn’t it?” she asked with a tone and expression that suggested this should have been more obvious. “Think about it, Cullen. She’s the leader of the Inquisition, a position of great influence. She came from a clan of Dalish nomads and rose to become one of the most powerful individuals in all of Thedas. It’s no secret that she has chosen to take the commander of her forces as a lover. And yet a human, a noblewoman from Orlais—a country that has oppressed her people for _centuries_ —is under the impression that she should be able to walk into the Inquisitor’s own house and claim him for her own, simply by virtue of her background and status. It’s just another kind of imperialism, isn’t it? An Exalted March on the Inquisitor’s own bed. Honestly, I’m shocked Briala is allowing it, being an elf herself and more than keenly aware of how her people are treated by the nobility there.”

She had resumed oiling her armor, a grumpy expression on her face.

“Honestly, I think the Dalish are within their rights to distrust us all,” she went on. “First the Hero of Ferelden, and now Inquisitor Lavellan… the Dalish keep delivering Thedas from certain destruction, and all we seem to be able to do in return is let them know at every turn that they’ll _never_ be good enough, that we’ll _always_ feel entitled to take whatever glory or happiness they try to keep for themselves.”

Cullen leaned back in his chair, his busywork forgotten. Shame had once again settled like a brick in his gut.

“I had no idea you felt this way, Cass.”

“I’ve been giving it a lot of thought, of late,” she said, setting down her pauldron and taking up the one Cullen had abandoned. “I treated her horribly myself, the first time we met. Like a common criminal. Would I have been so hasty to assume her guilt if she had been a human, like me? I do not know the answer. But I do know that the entire time she was at the Winter Palace—as an _honored guest_ , no less— she had to endure nobles whispering behind their hands about how unbelievable it was that we’d let a ‘knife-ear’ become Inquisitor, or how insulting it was that Andraste would choose a ‘lowly rabbit’ as her Herald when there were so many well-bred human followers she could have anointed.”

She took a deep breath.

“You know I don’t like to speak ill of our Ambassador, but I think she is making a mistake allowing this to transpire. Freya has to deal with enough prejudice because of who she is. She shouldn’t be made to endure it in her own home.”

“You’ve heard Josephine, though. The amount of gold Comte Marchand has promised the Inquisition could run the castle for a year’s time.”

“Being able to justify the ends does not always make the means of achieving them right,” she countered, frowning. “I think a pile of gold is a poor excuse to put someone through something so hurtful. But I know the decision has been made, so I suppose there’s little to be done about it now. The delegation will be here in a matter of hours. No turning Aceline Marchand back to Orlais, now.”

“No,” said Cullen quietly. “I suppose not.”

“Would you like my advice?” Cassandra asked, finishing her polishing and setting the armor aside with a soft clank of metal against wood.

“Very much so,” he replied, feeling lost and overwhelmed with self-reproach at this new revelation.

“Do what you must for the next few days, but make sure that behind closed doors, Freya knows how much she is loved. Treat her gently, validate her feelings. And once all this is over, you’d better come up with a _damn_ good way to make it up to her.”

She got up from the table and crossed briskly to a small trunk, opening the lid and taking out a pair of dark leggings and a clean tunic.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, still sounding a bit terse, “I need to wash and get this armor on. Time is passing and the delegation will be here before we know it.”

Cullen looked up at her, an expression of mild surprise on his face.

“Wait, Josephine is letting you wear your _armor_ at the welcome banquet?” he asked.

“Of course,” said Cassandra, turning to look at him with an incredulous expression. “What were you expecting, a _ballgown_?”

She snorted.

“Oh, no,” said Cullen, pinching his temple between his thumb and forefinger. “Freya is going to _kill_ her.”


	4. The Second Masquerade

“Gods, there had better be a glass of wine already poured and waiting for me at my place when we get to the table. I’ll _never_ make it through this dinner sober.”

Freya stood in the middle of her chambers, rummaging through her bureau drawers for a clean set of smallclothes.

Seated on the bed nearby, Cullen looked up at her with a crooked grin as he fastened his boots.  
  
“That makes two of us,” he told her, flexing and bending his ankle to try to work some of the stiffness out of the leather. They were brand new, just delivered that morning, and the intricately stamped and gilded shafts felt rigid and unyielding as he tugged the shiny brass buckles into place. He could already feel them pinching and rubbing uncomfortably and instantly regretted having put off ordering them for so long that he hadn’t had time to break them in.

Freya grunted and frowned as she wrestled the soft cotton cloth of her underpants over the still-damp skin of her thighs. The fabric grabbed at her, skidding across flesh that was still colored a vibrant pink from the heat of her bath. After she finally yanked them into place, she began struggling into her breastband, shooting dirty looks at a very ornate dress hanging from a hook on the wall.

She supposed if she were a human, or even a city elf, she might think it was beautiful. The bodice and skirt were a rich green velvet, embroidered with a floral pattern in sparkling golden thread. The back had been cut into a deep V-shape with a golden lace inset, and a thin line of tiny gilt buttons fastened it down the center.

Josephine had been all aflutter when she’d made Freya try it on, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she circled the elf appraisingly in her little office outside the war room, using words like _elegant_ and _luscious._ Freya, meanwhile, thought she looked like a redheaded peacock, and she found the gown fussy and pretentious. The weight of the velvet made her feel suffocated and overheated, and the lace itched her neck. And then there were the three separate underskirts to contend with.

“I already have a perfectly suitable and  _comfortable_  dress,” she’d insisted, thinking of her  _mamae_ ’s gown tucked away at the back of her wardrobe closet.

“It’s not that your mother’s dress isn’t lovely,” Josephine had told her gently, choosing her words with care. “It’s just that it’s not quite…  _appropriate_  for a state dinner with Orlais.”

 _It looks too Dalish._  

The Ambassador would never say that, of course, but Freya wasn’t an idiot. She could read between the lines.

“What about the one I wore to the Winter Palace?” she had asked.  _Anything_  was better than this.

“It’s a summer gown, Inquisitor. That will never do. Besides, the Orlesians will have already seen that one.”

Freya had been glad Josie had her back turned and consequently couldn’t see the face she’d made at this.

And so here she was, burying herself under a mountain of petticoats and then slipping the weighty frock over her head, taking care not to muss the complicated configuration of braids that had been painstakingly pinned to her nape just before her bath. She slid her arms into the sleeves, then reached behind her back to fumble with the gilded buttons.

“Here, let me,” Cullen offered, standing and inviting her toward him. She walked backward a few steps and held her arms out stiffly at her sides as he began fastening the dress, working his way up from the bottommost loop.

He could smell the floral scent of bath soap still clinging to her as he worked, eyeing the delicate shadows of her collarbones in the mirror as they slowly disappeared beneath the fabric.

The light brush of his fingertips against her bare shoulder blades took her by surprise, and she let out a small gasp as she looked up at her reflection in time to see him dip his head toward her, pressing his lips to the skin just below her ear. 

She smiled.

“Careful,  _ma'nehn_. Don’t go starting anything you can’t finish.”

“Oh, I can finish it,” he murmured into her neck, and she let out a soft laugh.

“Not quickly enough that we can be in the throne room in ten minutes,” she told him, cradling his cheek in her hand as he continued administering his soft kisses, his fingers tracing over her freckled skin and raising gooseflesh wherever they touched.

“Would you like to lay money on that, Lady Herald?”

“No, I would  _not_ ,” she giggled, giving his head a gentle nudge. “Not in the mood Josephine is in today. She practically took my head off for tracking in a bit of hay on the floor of the main hall this morning when I came in from brushing Flapjack. I don’t want to _think_ what she’ll do to us if we show up late and rumpled for the arrival of the delegation.”

Though he could think of few things he wanted more at the moment than to make them late and  _very_ rumpled indeed, he obediently removed his hands from her back and resumed fastening her dress again, smirking at her in the mirror.

“As you wish.”

When he was done, he gave her one last peck on the pointed tip of her ear. She turned from side to side, examining her outline in the bulky skirts. The fabric on her back scratched harshly against her as she moved. She made a disgruntled noise deep in her throat.

“Dread Wolf take whoever invented lace,” she muttered, reaching back to give her neck a scratch. “It’s like wearing sandpaper.”

“I sympathize,” replied Cullen, looking down at his boots. “I’ll have blisters inside of an hour in these things.”

Freya shuffled over to retrieve a pair of new high-heeled shoes waiting for her on the settee. She wiggled her tiny feet into them, Cullen offering a hand to stabilize her as she took a couple of wobbly steps. She caught a glimpse of herself as she teetered, thinking to herself that she looked like a baby halla learning to walk.

 _If I make it through the evening without spraining an ankle_ , she thought,  _it’ll be a miracle_.

Dabbing a bit of perfumed oil onto her wrists with a sigh, she took one last look at her reflection. 

They might not be wearing masks this time, but this felt no less like a costume than it had that night months ago in Val Royeaux. She didn’t even look like herself anymore. 

Privately, she wondered what her parents would think if they could see their proud Dalish daughter dressed up in the high fashion of their conquerors. The idea sent a small flicker of shame through her.

“You probably don’t want to hear this,” Cullen was saying, his voice cutting through her thoughts, “but you  _do_  look beautiful.”

There was a brief pause as their eyes met in the mirror again, and he could see that she was trying only somewhat successfully to conceal her disagreement with this. But before he could say anything more, Freya had smoothed her skirts with an air of finality and turned to face him, fussing with one of her sleeves and avoiding his eye.

“We should go,” she said briskly. “Are you ready?”

He held out an arm to her, his stomach turning sour at the thought of what was to come. His mind drifted back to his conversation with Cassandra, and the creeping feelings of shame and unease burned hot on his neck. He silently preyed Freya wouldn't notice the flush blooming across his skin.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” he lied, hoping he sounded nonchalant.

“Good. Then let’s get this over with.”

She linked her elbow with his and let him steady her as she stepped cautiously down the stone steps, reaching her other arm up to scratch at the lace again and thinking longingly about downing that glass of wine.

 

_________________________

  
 

All of the other key figures in the Inquisition had gathered in the main hall, and by the time Cullen and Freya stepped out of the doorway leading to her chambers, Josephine had begun lining everyone up in front of the Inquisitor's throne.  
  
Freya looked around, tensing her jaw with irritation as she noticed that everyone else had been made to make comparatively subtle changes in their attire. Bull was wearing a shirt, which in and of itself was novel. Sera had found a nice belted blouse and clean leather leggings. Cassandra had obviously shined her armor meticulously, and Dorian stood next to her, using it as a mirror to inspect the curl of his mustache. Varric was smoothing his ponytail, the only apparent change he'd made being that his shirt was fully closed for once. Even Solas had donned an elegant tunic embellished with intricate elven embroidery, and he'd abandoned his wolf's jaw amulet for the occasion. Vivienne looked her usual resplendent self, and Freya privately mused to herself that, at a certain point, one's stylishness probably reached a maximum limit.  
  
In any case, the Inquisitor seemed to have been the only one asked to dress completely outside of her comfort zone. She supposed it made sense, as the figurehead, that she would be held to a higher standard of dress by the delegation, but she still resented it. Walking awkwardly to the center of the room,  she stood directly in front of the throne, Cullen taking a place beside her.  
  
"Ah," said Josephine, sounding hesitant as she watched them, "I, uh... I think it best if the commander stands over _here_ , to this side, and Leliana and myself will flank you to the left and right, respectively."  
  
Freya could feel her hand balling up unintentionally and willed herself to relax it, stretching her fingers out. Cullen gave her hand a gentle squeeze and whispered in her ear.  
  
"It'll be okay, love."  
  
It didn't _feel_ okay. But she let him sidle away, taking a place on the other side of Leliana, next to Ser Barris. Dorian caught Freya's eye and gave her a look of empathy, and she noticed that they had placed Bull on completely the other side of the room from him. She chewed the inside of her cheek angrily as Josephine made final adjustments to their lineup, fixing hems and straightening collars as she went.  
  
The door creaked open, and one of Cullen's men entered, carefully tapping the snow off his boots before striding across the room. They could see that the sun outside was dimming, coloring the sky a brilliant pink and casting the courtyard in warm, even light and soft shadows.  
  
"Lady Ambassador," the soldier said, giving Josephine a slight bow. "The delegation has arrived. Their horses are being cared for by Master Dennet and they will arrive in the hall shortly."  
  
She nodded and turned back to face the line of Inquisition agents, her voice betraying a bit of her own nervousness as it wavered almost imperceptibly.

"Alright, everyone, the delegation will enter and I will introduce them each in turn to the Inquisitor. Once acquaintances have been made, we will all retire to the dining hall for the welcome banquet. Please remember what we've talked about--this is a very important week for the Inquisition and could impact our financial security for months to come."  
  
She took her place at Freya's right hand. Leaning over, she said in an undertone, "I know this will be a difficult week for you, and I want you to know that I admire your willingness to do what is best for the organization in spite of how you must feel. We made the right decision, choosing you to lead us."  
  
She touched Freya's hand gently with her own and gave her a small smile. Then, smoothing her skirts anxiously, she turned again to face the door.  
  
They all stood, staring at the door with bated breath, waiting for it to open again.


	5. Introductions

“ _Psst, Tiny_.”

Varric’s stage whisper broke the tense silence. The Iron Bull turned his head toward the dwarf, raising his eyebrows. Varric gave him a mischievous grin.

“I’ll give you a sovereign if you rip one right now.”

Freya clapped a hand over her mouth, snorting into her palm as Bull let our a guffaw and a ripple of laughter traveled down the line of people. Even Vivienne had permitted herself a smirk.

“Honestly!” Josephine hissed, and then the loud creak of the castle door signaled the entrance of the foreign dignitaries, and they all managed to compose themselves just in time as the silhouettes of Briala and her companions materialized against the dimming sky outside.

The spymaster looked just as Freya remembered her—tall and lithe, with a dignified air about her. She was pleased to see that the Orlesians seemed to have dispensed with the masks for their visit—a request Josephine had made on her behalf. As such, this was the first time Freya had fully seen the elf’s face, which was a deep bronze and sprinkled with freckles, though nowhere near as many as Freya had herself. Standing next to her was a pretty young woman in a simple cream-colored dress, no more than eighteen, with thick black hair in a long plait down her back.

Josephine cleared her throat as Briala stepped forward.

“Your Worship, may I present to you Lady Briala, Spymaster of the Imperial Court and Marquise of the Dales, accompanied by her handmaid, Lisette.”

Briala inclined her head slightly, giving Freya a friendly smile, and Lisette gave a far deeper bow, murmuring, “Your Grace.”

“Lady Inquisitor,” Briala said, giving her an appraising look. “I’m pleased to see that you appear well.”

“As do you, Lady Briala,” Freya replied kindly. “Congratulations on your new title.”

Briala seemed to swell a bit at this.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” she replied, her voice filled with pride. “I think we can both agree that having an elf in charge of the Dales for the first time in nearly seven hundred years is a triumph.”

Freya’s mouth curved upward in a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. While she was certain that Briala would do her best to champion the _city_ elves in Orlais, she wasn’t so sure they would ever be able to agree on policies specifically intended to uplift the Dalish. But that was a discussion for another time, so she bit her tongue on the matter.

“Please, just Freya is fine,” she said. “I do hope you’ll find Skyhold hospitable and that your visit proves to be a fruitful one for us both.”

Briala nodded her agreement, and she and Lisette stepped aside to make way for the introduction of a very well-groomed young man in an embroidered silk vest of deep aubergine, undeneath which was a crisp lavender tunic with puffed sleeves, his traveling cloak tucked over one arm. He was tall and slender, with long, dark hair tied back with a plum-colored ribbon and clear olive skin. His fine features broke into a genial grin as he came forward.

“Your Worship, I present Lord Jean Paul Lefebvre, Ambassador to the Imperial Court and son of Baron Nicolas Lefebvre of Val Foret.”

Josephine had briefed them on the fact that Empress Celine—feeling that being spymaster as well as the ruler of a large region of the country was quite enough of a job for Briala—had hired a new Ambassador for the empire. Jean Paul’s reputation was that of a charming and charismatic young man with impeccable tastes and a fondness for lap dogs. (Freya was somewhat relieved to see that none of the latter had been brought along.)

Clicking the heels of his tasseled boots, he put a hand to his chest and gave a low bow at the waist, keeping his eyes and smile on Freya.

“Such an honor, Inquisitor Lavellan,” he said in a clear, confident tone. “On behalf of the Empire of Orlais and Empress Celine herself, thank you for extending your hospitality.”

“The pleasure is mine,” said Freya. “Thank you for making such a long journey in the cold, Ambassador.”

“It was not so bad,” he replied, giving a small shrug and widening his grin. “I think now I am beginning to feel my toes again.”

Freya chuckled at this.

“I can sympathize,” she told him, nodding. “I trust you and Ambassador Montilyet will have lots to confer on while you’re here.”

“Undoubtedly so. I’m looking forward to seeing how our organizations can better serve one another.” He lowered his voice and leaned in a bit. “And may I just say, that gown is _divine_.”

Josephine couldn’t help herself.

“Isn’t it just?” she gushed. “It was commissioned just for the Inquisitor from one of the finest designers in Val Royeaux.”

“Would it happen to be a D’Autremont piece?”

“It is, indeed!”

“I thought I recognized his style!” Jean Paul said, nodding.

Freya was torn between annoyance and amusement at watching the Ambassadors’ mutual excitement over her silly dress. Jean Paul seemed to cotton on to this and gave her an apologetic sort of look.

“Sorry, I do get a bit distracted by couture,” he said with a small grin. “I look forward to a week of productive discussion and cultural exchange.”

He gave another little bow and stepped to the side to join Briala. He was replaced by another man, stockier and shorter than Jean Paul, with porcelain skin and hair the color of carrots.

“Inquisitor, may I present Bastien, Lady Briala’s top agent, and a gifted bard.”

He inclined his head.

“Inquisitor.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Bastien. No surname?”

“When one is as deeply engaged in the Grand Game as I, the fewer identifiers one has, the better,” he explained. He gestured to Freya’s left. “Take your Nightengale, for example.”

It was true—if Leliana had a surname, Freya had never heard it.

“Point taken,” she said. They looked at one another in awkward silence for a moment before Freya finally spoke again. “Well, I hope you find your visit comfortable and informative.”

“I’m sure we will, Your Worship.”

And with that, he stepped aside. Freya was a bit taken aback at the abruptness of their exchange, but she supposed a good bard probably said little and observed much. Sure enough, as soon as the attention was off him Bastien began looking around the great hall, taking in the details of the room.

Another man stepped forward, human again, this time a little younger and bearing the robes of a Brother of the Chantry. He bowed his brunette head as Josephine made the introduction.

“Inquisitor, may I present Brother Marceau Allard, of the Val Royeaux Chantry.”

“It is an honor to be in the presence of the Herald of Andraste,” he said, his gaze still averted.

Freya had to consciously stop herself from rolling her eyes. She painted a smile on her face and, choosing to ignore the false title she had grown to despise, said, “Welcome to Skyhold, Brother Marceau. I was surprised to learn that we would be visited by a delegate from the Chantry.”

The man looked up, smiling from ear to ear.

“Mother Giselle is something of a personal hero of mine, Your Worship,” he confessed, giving the Revered Mother a nervous glance. She gave him a warm smile back. “When it was suggested that a delegate from our Chantry may be sent to learn how she is using the influence of the Inquisition to help others, I jumped at the chance to come. Her work in Jader continues to be an inspiration for my own path as a follower of the Chant.”

“I have no doubt that Mother Giselle would be glad to teach you whatever you would like to know about her work here in Skyhold and our outreach,” Freya said, kindly, “though I will say that I have asked that our charitable work be kept primarily secular in nature.”

“A good deed done, whether in the name of faith or not, is still worthy of praise. I am eager to learn from the Revered Mother.”

He bowed deeply again, and then stepped aside, revealing the last two members of the delegation.

A tall, buxom woman approached, her steps quick and confident. Underneath her unfastened traveling cloak, they could see she was dressed in a fine velvet gown, not dissimilar to Freya’s, though this one was a rich sapphire blue, and the plunging neckline on hers was in the front rather than the back, clearly tailor-made to show off an ample bosom. A necklace of gold thickly crusted with diamonds graced her unblemished decolletage, and a dangling pair of matching stones also sparkled from her earlobes, framed by a cascade of carefully coifed white-blonde hair that hung in perfect coils around her face and over her shoulders. She had lightly rouged her cheeks and stained her lips a deep rosy pink, and as she approached she did not bow but rather fixed Freya with a haughty expression, her eyes flitting briefly toward Cullen.

“Your Worship, may I present Lady Aceline Marchand, daughter of Comte Francois Marchand of Arlesans.”

Freya fixed the smile on her face once more, willing her hands not to ball up again as she spoke.

“Welcome to Skyhold, Lady Marchand,” she said, hoping she sounded more hospitable than she felt. “We are so grateful for your father’s generous offer of support and hope that you find your stay pleasant.”

“I had heard descriptions of Skyhold,” Aceline said in her thick accent, looking around, “but I feel that they did not paint quite an accurate picture. It is very… what is the word? ...' _Rustic_.' But at least it is warmer than the carriages. It was such a long and tiresome journey and I am very much looking forward to sampling some of the local cuisine, as soon as introductions have concluded.”

 _A nice way of saying, “Shut up so we can eat already,”_ Freya thought to herself, noting the lack of greeting or formal address.

“Well, I hope the food will be to your liking,” she replied, still keeping the smile fixed on her face.

Aceline gave a small nod and walked toward Briala. “Let us find out.”

“Yes,”said Josephine, looking at Freya. “With the Inquisitor’s permission, we shall head to the dining hall for the banquet.”

But Freya wasn’t looking at her Ambassador. An elven woman in plain clothes and close-cropped hair the color of honey had made as if to follow Aceline. Freya held up a hand to stop her.

“One moment, please, everyone. Introductions are not quite over,” she said, gesturing toward the elf. “Josephine, are you not going to present this young woman?”

Aceline had turned to stare at Freya, seemingly astonished that anyone would care about the young elf’s identity. Josephine cleared her throat, looking embarassed.

“Ah, my sincere apologies, Inquisitor. This must be Mariel, an elven servant of Lady Marchand.”

Mariel looked sheepishly up at Freya and bowed somewhat awkwardly. Her voice was shaky and barely audible and her cheeks had flushed a deep red. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Your Worship.”

“Welcome to Skyhold, _ara’ni_.”

This time, Freya’s smile was warm and genuine, reaching up to crinkle the corners of her eyes.

“I’m terribly sorry, Your Worship,” Mariel replied. “I don’t speak hardly any elvish at all.”

“Well,” said Freya kindly, “no need to apologize. It means ‘friend.’ Maybe you’ll pick up a little more while you’re here.”

Mariel gave a small, forced smile and a curtsy, and Freya could tell she’d rather escape the spotlight than have further dialogue, so she turned to Josephine instead.

“We can head to the dining hall now. Ambassador, if I might have a quick word before we dine?”

Josephine hung back, quietly asking Leliana to lead everyone into the dining hall and get them all seated according to their place cards.

“Inquisitor?” she asked hesitantly after everyone had left, giving Freya a rather anxious expression.

Freya fixed her with a stern look.

“I want to be clear that from now on, _everyone_ in a visiting party is to be granted the same courtesy and dignity of having an introduction. I couldn’t help but notice that you made sure to mention Lisette, Briala’s handmaid. But Mariel was treated like she was’t even there. Elves are never to be made to feel invisible in my keep, Josephine, even if they’re servants.”

“Of course, Inquisitor. I apologize. I assure you, it was not intentional on my part, merely an oversight.”

“Well,” Freya replied, “in the future, please see to it that nobody else with pointed ears falls victim to the same oversight.”

She gestured toward the dining hall, and Josephine, looking mortified, turned toward it with Freya on her heels.


	6. A Disappointing Lack of Sauces

The dining hall was far brighter and more festive than usual. Several additional lanterns had been hung over the long head table, casting a golden glow over the many sumptuous dishes that had been laid out by the kitchen staff.

Freya smoothed her skirt under her bottom as she seated herself between Leliana and Josephine. Briala had been given the seat directly across from her, flanked on either side by Bastien and Jean Paul. Cullen sat on the other side of Leliana, and Freya was unsurprised to see that Aceline had been seated opposite him. Lady Marchand was presently leaning back to allow a young elven steward to fill her glass. She didn’t bother to thank him or even spare him a glance.

Freya’s own goblet was already full of fragrant red wine, and she took a long drink. Fancy dinner parties were, in her opinion, a nightmare. She’d much rather be tearing a loaf and sharing some roasted sausages with her companions around a campfire than sitting in an itchy dress and making small talk with wealthy strangers.

She glanced around, noticing that nobody had made a move to serve themselves. They all seemed to be looking expectantly at her.

“I hope you’re not all waiting for my permission,” she said with a smile. She gestured at the plates, bowls, and tureens lining the table. “Please, help yourselves.”

Everyone tucked in eagerly, though Freya did notice that some of the Orlesian party, Jean Paul and Aceline in particular, handled the utensils quite clumsily, as though they weren’t used to serving their own food.

 _Nobs_ , said Sera’s voice in her head, and she suppressed a grin.

Josephine was excitedly naming off the dishes, going over their various points of origin: roast mutton and gigantic hams from the Hinterlands; sweet corn, an astonishing variety of potatoes, and bread made with grains from the Bannorn; several kinds of fresh broiled fish caught from the Waking Sea; foraged mushrooms and berries from the Brecilian Forest. The spread put even the Satinalia feast to shame.

“This roast is particularly tender,” said Jean Paul appreciatively, cutting through a hunk of mutton with ease.

“Our head cook, Donatien, is very talented,” Freya said, smiling. “Though if you’re caught pilfering her pantry, you’re likely to see what other skills she has with a spatula.”

“And would you happen to know this through _personal_ experience?” he asked, grinning at her.

Freya gave a coy little shrug and said, “Perhaps." She looked over at Cullen, who was eyeing Jean Paul strangely as Aceline chattered at him from across the table.

“Everything here is so _heavy_ ,” she was saying. “And so many potatoes! I don’t know how you keep up your physique, Commander. I’m going to look like a pregnant sow by the time I get home. I must also say, there is a disappointing lack of sauces. At home, we frequently have two or three for each kind of meat so one does not get bored from one bite to the next.”

She was spreading a dainty blob of creamy white butter on a yeasted roll, and Freya watched with some amusement as she took a bite and then twisted her face into a grimace. She held the food in her mouth for a brief moment, looking disgusted, then grabbed a napkin and attempted to inconspicuously spit it out, retching a little.

“Forgive me, Inquisitor," she said once she had composed herself, "but you seem to have served us _spoiled butter_.”

She pushed the little green dish away from her, frowning accusatorily at Freya.

“It’s halla butter,” Freya explained, spreading some from the nearest dish onto her own thick slice of bread.

“Oh,” said Aceline, still frowning. “I suppose this is a delicacy for _your people_?”

She leaned heavily on the last two words.

Freya gave a small snort.

“Delicacy is a stretch,” she said, setting down her knife. “It’s common table butter. I grew up eating it, but I understand it can be a bit of an acquired taste for humans.”

“I quite like it,” said Cullen, shrugging.

“I _love_ it,” Dorian said from a couple seats down. He was slathering some thickly on a hunk of bread, which he then popped into his mouth, rolling his eyes back into his head as he seemed to relish the flavor.

Freya put a hand to her mouth and tried to disguise a burst of laughter as a small cough. It was a well-known fact that Dorian _hated_ halla milk, along with anything made from it. He was doing a great job of acting, though, eagerly grabbing and buttering another slice. He tipped her a sly wink.

“The regular cow butter is in the blue dishes,” Freya said, gesturing toward one in Aceline’s vicinity.

“...May _I_ try the halla butter?”

Mariel’s voice was so quiet it was barely audible over the general din of the dining hall, which was full of the remainder of Skyhold’s residents, all of whom were thrilled to be treated to such a feast. The young elf looked surprised at her own boldness, and Freya got the impression she had probably never asked for anything from the Marchands before in her life.

Aceline shoved the green butter dish in Mariel’s direction without so much as looking at her, and the elf gratefully accepted it, sniffing it with curiosity.

“Which other dishes are representative of your culture?” asked Jean Paul, looking keenly interested as he scanned the table.

“Oh, it’s just the butter,” said Freya, taking a bite of her own bread now. The familiar taste made her think of her late younger brother, Aronhalaan, the aspiring halla keeper, and she smiled to herself as she thought of what he’d have to say about this whole affair.

“Really?” Jean Paul asked, frowning. “I would think that the Inquisitor’s cultural heritage would be displayed more prominently than this at such a banquet.”

Freya could feel Josephine to her right, stiffening in her chair.

“Some Antivan food would have been lovely as well,” Briala chimed in. “They use such flavorful spices there. I believe that is where you hail from, is it not, Lady Ambassador?”

“It is,” she replied, looking a tad frustrated. “We just thought that highlighting Ferelden, since that is where the Inquisition is based—”

“Ah, but the Inquisition serves _all_ of Thedas, does it not?” asked Jean Paul. “Including the Inquisitor’s homeland, which I believe is the Free Marches?”

Freya sipped her wine, trying to hide a smile. When she was sure she could answer without sounding smug, she lowered her goblet.

“That’s right,” she said.

“And what would _you_ have added to the table to represent Clan Lavellan?” he asked.

Freya thought for a moment.

“My mother’s wildberry tarts, I think,” she said finally, a wistful look in her eye. “She always made them in the late summer, when the berries were perfectly fat and ripe. We’d all go out and pick them fresh from the forest and she’d make about a hundred, and they’d be gone in a few days between the lot of us.”

“Oh, that _does_ sound delightful!” Jean Paul agreed. His expression then grew solemn. “May I just say, by the way, that we were all _so_ very sorry to hear the dreadful news about your family.”

Aceline was giving Freya a searching look at this, not appearing to entirely understand what Jean Paul meant.

“Thank you for your sympathies,” replied Freya with a nod. “All we can hope to do is learn from it and do our best to protect the rest of Thedas better than we protected them.”

She could feel the backs of her eyes starting to sting and blinked rapidly a few times, then looked down the table toward Mariel, changing the subject.

“How did you find the halla butter, _ara’ni_?”

“Oh,” said the other elf, who had a forkful of roast turnips halfway to her mouth and was looking surprised and bashful at having been addressed directly by the Inquisitor yet again. “I liked it very much, Your Worship. Such a unique flavor.”

Freya smiled at her.

“I’m glad to hear it. Don’t be shy about anything else you want to try. It’s all here to be eaten.”

 

The evening waned on, with the conversation turning from food to light politics, which devolved into gossip about the goings-on among the Orlesian nobility—a subject which Freya had a much harder time feigning interest in. She did her best to adopt a look of polite curiosity but allowed her mind to wander as she studied the Orlesian dignitaries, noticing little things like Bastien’s habit of smacking his lips loudly each time he took a drink—the only noise he made during the entire meal—and the fact that Brother Marceau had turned down alcohol in favor of a nice sparkling apple cider, which Josephine explained had been made from apples harvested near Lothering, hometown of the Champion of Kirkwall.

This provided an opportunity for the Orlesians to ask no small amount of questions about the Champion, most of which were directed at Varric, who knew her personally.

“And just where _is_ Caitlin Hawke these days?” asked Briala, raising her eyebrows at the dwarf as she fixed him with a quizzical look.

“The only people who know that for sure are the Champion herself and Fenris,” he said with a grin, raising his hands in surrender. “You know as much as I do, Marquise.”

Cassandra scoffed at this and took a deep drink from her goblet, and Cullen gave a small chuckle.

“Still annoyed about that, are you Cass?” he asked.

“I doubt I’ll ever _stop_ being annoyed at Varric,” she replied, though there was a poorly hidden note of affection in her voice as she said it.

Plates were cleared away soon after so that dessert could be served, and those who hadn’t already stuffed themselves to bursting indulged in sweets of all varieties, from pies and cakes to fudge and fresh fruit with cream. Once everyone had eaten all they could, Josephine stood and tapped a fork against her water goblet, clearing her throat.

“Thank you all for a lovely evening of food and conversation,” she said, inclining her head toward the Orlesian delegation. “We have a busy week ahead, so I think it would do us all some good to get ample rest tonight. If our guests could please make their way to the throne room, attendants will be along presently to show you to your rooms, where itineraries for the week are waiting for your perusal. If you should need anything, please do not hesitate to let a member of our staff know, and we will attend to it promptly.”

Freya stood as well, and the rest of the table followed suit. As the throng exited the dining room and congregated in the great hall, she managed to slip away and head silently for her chambers, eager to escape the crowd and the noise for the refuge of an empty room.

 

Cullen took a long time to follow, having been held up by Aceline—who wanted to complain again about the overly hearty and sauceless food before being ushered off to her room—and then having stopped to discuss plans for the following day with Ser Barris, who would be taking over his morning duties while he gave Lady Marchand her personal tour of the keep. He made his way up the stone steps quietly in case Freya had already fallen asleep.

When he crested the top of the stairs, however, he saw that she had only gotten as far as undressing and was currently standing in front of the mirror in only her smalls, staring at her reflection. She had turned to the side and seemed to be scrutinizing her _bosom_ , of all things. He watched her cup her breasts in her palms, push them up a bit, frown, and then drop her hands, looking dissatisfied.

Not wanting to embarass her, he retreated back down the steps and then made quite a bit more noise as he walked up, talking loudly as he ascended.

“Maker, what a tiresome affair _that_ was.”

As he got to the top of the steps again, he saw that Freya had quickly thrown on a tunic over her bare chest and was busily working on re-positioning her fancy frock and its many underskirts on their hanger.

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, smiling a little over her shoulder at him, “It had its highlights.”

“Like watching Lady Marchand gag on a mouthful of halla butter?” he asked with a laugh as he made his way to the settee to sit and unlace his boots.

“And watching Josie eat a bit of crow,” she added, hooking the hanger over the closet door. “I don’t think she cared for Jean Paul’s implication that she could have been a bit more inclusive with the menu.”

There was a brief pause, and then, without looking up from his laces, Cullen said, “ _He’s_ an interesting fellow.”

“He is,” she agreed, beginning to take out the abundance of hairpins that had been fixed in her braids and arranging them in a mound on her desk. “Snappy dresser, too.”

“He seemed to take quite a shine to you,” Cullen went on, appearing to miss the note of sarcasm in her voice. He kicked off the ornate boots and stretched his feet, wincing. No blisters, thankfully, but they’d been aggressively pinching his toes all night.

“Did he?” she asked, turning to look at him with her eyebrows raised.

He made a quiet scoffing noise through his nostrils. Freya had the irritating habit of not noticing when men were flirting with her, which was often. Varric frequently liked to rehash a very entertaining story about a trip to the Hinterlands, in which they had visited the Gull and Lantern in Redcliffe for a drink and a local farmer got halfway through a proposal before she even realized what was happening. It wasn't nearly as entertaining when it was happening under his own roof, however.

He crossed to the room and took a sheaf of parchment off the desk, reading Freya's itinerary for the morning.

 

_7:30 - Breakfast_

_8:30 - Tour of the keep with Briala, Brother Marceau, and Jean Paul_

_11:00 - Resume Inquisition duties_

_12:00 - Lunch..._

 

“I see he’ll be accompanying you on a tour tomorrow morning,” he said, setting the paper back down.

“Along with Josie and Briala, and that Chantry fellow,” said Freya, giving him a look. “Not nearly as grand as a _private_ tour given by a famously handsome military commander.”

He couldn't help but grin at this and took a couple of steps toward her, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind and kissing her on the neck.

“You know what flattery will get you.”

She snorted as she continued taking out plaits and removing hairpins, the pile on the desk now a small mountain.

“Unless it’s a shoulder rub and a good night’s sleep, I’m not interested,” she said, shaking her hair loose with one hand and turning to face him.

Cullen tried to mask his feelings of surprise and mild hurt as he pulled back from her. He couldn’t remember her ever turning him down before. They were always apart for such long stretches that they were usually eager to snatch any opportunity they could for intimacy.

“All right,” he said, dropping his arms. “Is everything okay?”

Freya took a deep breath.

 _I just spent two hours dressed up like some little Orlesian girl’s porcelain doll to impress a delegation from a country that has slaughtered and enslaved my people without remorse or punishment for centuries,_ she thought to herself. _And tomorrow you’ll be spending half your day alone with an entitled, delusional heiress who has breasts the size of cantaloupes while I’m explaining my job to a man who looks like he belongs inside a jack-in-the-box and who, for some reason I can't figure out, seems threatening to you. The last thing I’m in the mood for at the moment is sex._

But what she said out loud was simply, “I’m tired.”

It wasn’t the _whole_ truth, but it was certainly not a lie, either. He seemed to accept this answer, in any case, and he finished undressing in silence as Freya climbed under the covers and rolled onto her side. After stoking the fire one last time, he crossed to the bed and got in beside her. She was facing away from him and didn’t make any move to turn over and kiss him goodnight.

“Are you mad at me?” he asked after a moment.

“I’m mad at _life_ , Cullen.”

And, as if to punctuate that she was finished talking for the night, she blew out the candle on her bedside table and pulled the covers up to her ears.


	7. Promenade

Freya was already up and halfway dressed by the time Cullen awoke the next morning. He rolled over to see her tugging on her favorite broken-in pair of leggings, looking relieved that she was allowed to resume her normal mode of dress. She glanced up from doing up the laces.

“Morning,” she said, tying them snugly and then reaching for a clean tunic she’d draped over the edge of her side of the bed. He watched her yank it down over her wild, red curls.

“Good morning,” he replied, sitting up and running a hand through his own messy, slept-in hair.

“You might want to get a wiggle on,” she said as she buckled a leather vest over her stomach and then started on her shoes. “Breakfast is in fifteen minutes.”

“Shit,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes. “Why didn’t you wake me earlier?”

“I _did_ ,” she said, an air of annoyance in her tone. “You rolled over and went right back to snoring.”

Cullen grumbled as he slowly made his way out of bed. Sleep hadn’t come to him easily, and he had lain awake late into the night, dreading today.

“I did do you the small favor of setting your clothes out over there for you.”

“Where?” he asked, rubbing his eyes.

“Look where I’m pointing,” she replied irritably, and he turned his head to see her standing there with one hand wrapped around her hair to hold a half-plaited braid in place, directing his attention to the settee with the other. His uniform had been neatly laid out, along with his armor and his comfortable work boots.

“Oh,” he grunted. “Thanks.”

Freya’s nimble fingers made quick work of the rest of the braid, deftly wrapping a leather cord around it to secure it. She gave herself one brief glance in the mirror, seemed to approve of what she saw, and then walked over to where Cullen was clumsily struggling into his pants.

“I’m going to head down,” she said, giving him a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “See you at breakfast.”

And then she turned to head down the stairs, the soft sound of her soles padding against the stonedrifting up to him as she went.

Cullen’s stomach twisted uncomfortably as he listened to her go, and he wondered if he’d be able to muster any kind of appetite at all this morning. Even on his worst days with regard to his lyrium withdrawal, he couldn’t remember food ever sounding less appetizing than it did now.

Several minutes later, he had gotten himself dressed and armored and raked a comb through his hair, taming it into place with a bit of wax. He really ought to have shaved, he realized, looking into the mirror and running a hand over his day-old stubble. But there was no time for it now. He splashed a bit of water on his face, trying to wake himself up a bit, and then turned to head to the dining hall himself.

By the time he got to the head table, most everyone had already been seated—including the Inquisitor and Jean Paul, who had taken the seat next to her.

 _My seat,_ he thought bitterly, giving the back of the man’s head a scathing glare. They were chatting excitedly, his words unintelligible to Cullen over the hum of noise that filled the dining hall. Freya laughed loudly at something the Orlesian had said, and Cullen clenched his teeth behind his frown.

“Good morning, Commander!” said a voice to his right. He turned to see Aceline, looking at him expectantly and giving him a dainty wave. The only spot remaining at the table was, of course, directly opposite her.

Unlike the rest of them, Aceline had not returned to casual wear. She was bedecked in a purple silk brocade this morning, her blonde curls pinned up elegantly off her neck without a hair out of place. Cullen wondered to himself if she even _owned_ anything more casual than a gown. He did notice that she had foregone her diamond jewelry today, at least.

Fixing a smile on his lips, he walked to the open seat.

“Good morning, Lady Marchand,” he said, pulling out the chair and sitting down. “I hope you slept well.”

This comment turned out to be a mistake, as he soon discovered. Aceline took it as an invitation to launch into a lengthy criticism of the quality of Ferelden bedding—everything from the subpar down filling in her duvet to the firmness of the mattress, all of which paled in comparison to the craftsmanship of her Orlesian-made four poster back at the Marchand estate. He tried to appear interested as she segued into a detailed description of elegant floral-patterned shams trimmed with pointelle lace. Buttering a slice of toast, he glanced at the steaming mug of black coffee he’d poured himself, hoping it would be enough to get him through this day.

By the time breakfast was over, he’d been treated to a full spoken-word tour of the Marchand estate, with a surprising amount of her time and energy spent on describing her bedroom, no matter how many times he tried to redirect her attention to, say, telling him more about the fountains in the estate’s large garden courtyard. He was relieved to hear Josephine’s voice calling above the noise to tell them it was time to begin the tours.

It really did seem stupid for there to be two separate tours going on, with the Marquis and her official delegates all taking one route while he and Aceline took a different one, alone. His instruction was to focus more on the military aspects of the keep, as that was what Comte Marchand was most keenly interested in, while Freya and Josephine would be speaking to Briala and the others about a broader range of topics as they walked around Skyhold—namely the more diplomatic and charitable functions of the Inquisition. But he couldn’t imagine that anything about his job was going to be remotely compelling to Aceline. Then again, she wasn’t really here for a riveting discussion on martial strategy, as he knew all too well.

Cullen stopped briefly in the great hall to confer with Ser Barris over some last-minute details regarding that morning’s training, and then he reluctantly joined Lady Marchand at the castle doors. She had wrapped herself in her woolen traveling cloak, her delicate hands stuffed inside a fur muff at her waist.

_Am I supposed to offer her my arm?_

It was really the last thing he wanted to do, but he supposed that it was probably the right thing, according to etiquette, so he stuck out his right elbow and invited her to take it. She eagerly accepted, and they stepped out into the bright morning sunlight together.

He had decided to begin their tour on the training grounds, and so they started off across the courtyard. Cullen was explaining a bit about the morning routine for the soldiers when he felt a yank on his arm. Aceline had stopped walking. He immediately saw why when he turned to look at her. The melting snow had made the soil soft beneath the brown grass, and one of her pointed heels had sunk right into the wet earth. 

She leaned on his arm as she grunted and struggled to pull her leg up, and when she finally did manage to liberate her foot, the shoe did not come with it.

“Perhaps a pair of flat boots would be more practical, my Lady,” he suggested, bending down to dig the mud out from around the heel so he could free the shoe.

“Boots?” she laughed, giving him an incredulous look. “Surely that is a joke.”

He had to restrain himself a great deal to keep from raising his eyes to the sky and pleading for the Maker to take him right then and there.

“Well,” he said, handing her back the now-filthy shoe, “Perhaps we should view the training from above, then.”

After she had replaced it, they carefully walked to the nearest staircase and began ascending to the parapets, Aceline gripping his arm so tightly that he could feel her manicured nails biting through his linen sleeve. She was more than a little out of breath by the time they reached the top, clearly unaccustomed to steep climbs in impractical footwear.

They walked a short distance along the wall until they had a good view of the soldiers doing their sparring exercises, Ser Barris walking among the ranks to correct mistakes and provide advice.

Cullen explained that the recruits were matched according to skill level, pairing the greener soldiers with more experienced fighters so that those with more battle under their belts could provide mentorship as they scrimmaged.

“And do they always fight with toy swords?” asked Aceline, leaning over and watching as the clatter of colliding wooden weapons rang out below.

“They’re practice swords,” Cullen corrected her. “Carefully weighted and balanced so they mimic the real thing as closely as possible. It’s one of our biggest expenses, actually. We're constantly having to replace them, because unlike steel”—a loud cracking of splintering wood sounded from below as if to punctuate his statement—“they break rather easily.”

“How much could one wooden sword possibly cost?”

“They’re about ten silvers each. Which, when multiplied by about a dozen or so a week, does start to add up.”

They watched the men below fighting for another minute, breaths coming out in puffs of steam as they danced around one another and swung their weapons through the air.

“You have a great variety of soldiers,” Aceline observed. “Not just humans. And I see several women, as well.”

“Yes, well,” Cullen said, leaning against the merlon, “we don’t discriminate when it comes to our troops. Anyone willing to swing a blade for the cause can join.”

“Lady Chevaliers are not unheard of in Orlais,” said Aveline with an air of disapproval, “but it is generally not considered very befitting of a noblewoman to take up a sword.”

“A pity,” said Cullen, spying the other group coming out of the front doors of the keep. His eyes followed Freya’s tiny figure as they all made their way across the courtyard, adding, “Some of the best fighters I know are women.”

Aceline followed his gaze.

“Do you think she is really the Herald of Andraste?” she asked pointedly, searching his face now as she did.

“I’m not sure what I think about it anymore, to be perfectly honest. The Inquisitor herself would insist that she’s not.”

“Well, it _does_ seem a bit far-fetched.”

“What, that Andraste dropped someone out of the sky to save us all from the Breach?”

“Oh no,” she said, eyeing Freya again. Their group had stopped to watch the sparring now, too, and Cullen could see the Inquisitor gesturing as she explained some aspect of the training to the delegates. “ _That_ part doesn’t seem so strange, not compared to some of the stories in the Chant. I just mean… well, she seems a strange choice, does she not?”

“How so?”

He had turned to face her now, his jaw set as he waited for an answer. He knew what she was insinuating, of course. He'd heard it all before. But he wanted to hear _her_ say it.

“Don’t you think Andraste would be more likely to choose someone who… well, I mean to say, someone who wasn’t…”

“An elf?” he offered.

“Not _just_ an elf,” Aceline insisted. “But one of _those_ elves in particular, one who lives in a wagon and worships little statues. The idea that Andraste would pick _her_ over all her faithful followers? It just doesn’t seem very logical to me.”

“She lives up _there_ now,” Cullen said, pointing to the tallest tower of the castle, where the Inquisitor’s chambers were housed. “And she’s the most important figure in this castle. Whether that was through divine machinations or just a strange twist of fate, that’s the way it ended up. She’s sacrificed a lot to lead this Inquisition. That should be respected, regardless of her race or her faith.”

Aceline was quiet for a moment, watching the Inquisitor and her companions, not looking nearly remorseful enough to satisfy him. Then, she turned to him again.

“What did Ambassador Lefebvre mean last night at dinner, about the Inquisitor’s clan?”

Cullen looked surprised at this.

The news of Clan Lavellan’s demise had spread like wildfire, especially when the Commander of the Inquisition had taken half the organization’s troops on an unsanctioned revenge mission against the Red Templars shortly thereafter—a fact which had been met with approval from most but heavy scorn from a fair few, as well. If Comte Marchand really was as interested in the Inquisition’s military actions as he had insisted, he didn’t see how the news could have escaped Aceline. She couldn’t possibly know how painful it was to hear it brought up so casually, as if they were discussing the weather.

Unless, of course, she _did_ know.

“The Lavellan clan was murdered three months ago.” His tone was terse, and he avoided her eye. “Fr—The Inquisitor lost her entire family. Everyone she’d ever known and loved, up until she came here.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Aceline, in the same tone one would use to console someone about a bad headcold.

The Commander had let his gaze trail back to Freya’s group, which had apparently had its fill of the sparring and were now headed off in the direction of the gardens. He watched as Jean Paul turned to converse directly with Freya, placing his hand on the small of her back as they walked. Cullen felt his eyes narrow and his jaw clench involuntarily again.

“It’s very cold," Aceline said, her voice a mere degree away from a whine. "Could we look at something inside next?”

Turning without offering his arm this time, he spoke over his shoulder as he headed back toward the stairs.

“Of course. Let’s go see the armory. You can see where we keep all the toy swords when they’re not being played with.”


	8. Eolas'esayelan

“Thank you so much for the lovely tour, Your Worship.”

Brother Marceu was walking next to Freya, his hands folded at his waist as they crossed the courtyard again, heading back toward the little garden chapel where he was to meet with Mother Giselle for prayer and counsel.

“Of course,” Freya replied. “I hope it was informative.”

“Oh, very much so. You have many skilled fighters, but it was heartening to see the good the Inquisition is doing for the people of Thedas, as well. Your outreach efforts are inspiring.”

“Well, that’s certainly due to the guidance of Mother Giselle. She’s worked very hard on many of our charitable initiatives.”

“You are modest,” he said, giving her a warm smile. “But I see your influence there, as well. I happen to know that you are yourself a practitioner of the traditional healing arts of the Dalish, and I believe that would make you a follower of Sylaise and the _Vir’Atishan_ —the Way of Peace—if my recollections from my study of the Evanuris are correct.”

Freya raised her brows.

“That’s right,” she answered, nodding. “I confess myself impressed, Brother Marceau. I’ve never met a follower of the Chant who had bothered to study the Evanurian faith.”

“Well, one can hardly expect to reach someone with the Maker’s word if you know nothing about their own beliefs.”

“I’ll admit that I haven’t much interest in the Maker or his dogma, myself,” said Freya, trying to keep her tone as level as she could. “After all, don’t most followers of the Chant hold to the idea that Dalish elves are _‘furthest from the Maker’s grace?’_ You can hardly expect most of us to be eager to hear about a religion that considers us inferior to humans, and even other elves.”

“Ah,” said Marceu, looking regretful. “Yes, sadly that is a commonly repeated belief among many sects of the Chantry. I can assure you, though, it is not a belief _I_ hold. Nor is it one that has any basis in the Chant itself, you’ll find. Many of us have not forgotten that it was an elf who became Andraste’s first Champion, and aided her in her struggle against the Tevinter Imperium. I have long been a keen scholar of the _Canticle of Shartan_.”

“Which was stricken from the Chant. After my people were slaughtered and scattered, and then all evidence of us removed from your religious art aside from a single mural. It was your forebearers who docked Shartan’s ears, Brother Marceau. An unkind reward for his service, if you ask me.”

“I will not deny these injustices,” he said solemnly. “Nor will I seek to invalidate your pain with excuses or platitudes. The word of the Maker is without fault, but the will of man is fallible. What was done was wrong, and I hope to see elves restored to their rightful places of honor in our shared history.”

It wasn’t the answer Freya had expected, and she looked curiously at him as they reached the door of the little chapel.

“It seems,” he continued, “that Andraste has once again chosen an elf to help lead us to salvation. And from what I see, it was a worthy choice. I do hope we’ll find the time to speak more, Inquisitor. Thank you again for showing us around the keep and telling us about the marvelous effort you’ve gone to here to make the world better for those who need it most.”

He gave her a slight bow and then walked in to meet Mother Giselle.

Freya stood there for a moment, blinking, still in a state of mild shock over what had just transpired. She had a feeling she and Brother Marceau would still disagree on a great many things, but to find a member of the Chantry who’d actually studied Dalish tradition and was willing to admit that their erasure from the collective history of Thedas was indeed a horrific miscarriage of justice…

She turned away from the chapel and was surprised to see another person strolling through the garden, looking at all of the pots with curiosity. There was nothing left in most of them but shriveled stalks, as it was still much too cold to start clearing and replanting, and would stay that way for several more weeks. The figure was bending down at each pot, squinting as she read the labels.

“Hello, Mariel,” Freya said as she approached, making the other elf jump. “ _Lasas em lanaste_. Forgive me, I didn’t mean to startle you. I didn’t expect to see you out here.”

Mariel tucked her hands inside her cloak, looking for all the world like a nervous little fennec with her honey-blonde hair and pointed ears.

“I’m sorry, Your Worship, if it’s not allowed—”

“Of course it’s allowed,” Freya laughed, “it’s a garden. Part of the reason it exists is to be enjoyed.”

“I just meant, if _servants_ …” Mariel’s sentence trailed off, and she shrugged, training her eyes anywhere but on Freya.

“Are workers not allowed in the gardens at the Marchand Estate?”

“Only the ones who tend them, Your Worship.”

Freya pursed her lips.

“I see. Well, here at Skyhold everyone is allowed to stroll the garden, Inquisitors and staff alike.”

Mariel looked relieved and glanced back at the pots.

“Could I… could I ask you a question?” she asked.

“Of course,” Freya replied. “Anything you like.”

“Why do you grow weeds on purpose?”

Freya chuckled at this.

“I take it the gardens back home are purely ornamental?” she asked. Mariel nodded in response. “Well, this is a functional garden. Almost everything here serves an important purpose. These pots all contain plants that are useful in potions. Elfroot for pain relief, spindleweed for tonics, crystal grace for healing potions.”

“How do you know so much about them, Your Worship?”

“Before I became the Inquisitor, I was finishing up my training to become a healer in my clan. Knowing your herbs is an essential part of Dalish medicine.” She leaned in a little before adding, “And just between you and I, I absolutely _hate_ being called ‘Your Worship.’”

“I’m sorry, Your Worship,” Mariel answered, then immediately turned red. “Er—”

“'Freya' is just fine, _ara’ni_."

“I beg your pardon, ma’am, but Lady Marchand would have a litter of nuglets if she heard me call you that.”

“Well, just when we’re alone then,” offered Freya, giving her a conspiratorial wink. Mariel smiled at this.

“I hope you don’t take offense at my saying this, but I didn’t expect you to be so… _nice.”_

Freya nodded at this. She knew all too well how so many of the Dalish treated their city elf cousins. It was scarcely better than they were treated by humans.

“I was never brought up to believe I was better than anyone else,” she replied. “Our clan believed that all elves are our kin, and all deserve to be treated with dignity.”

“You’d never hear an elf from _my_ alienage say that,” Mariel said, shaking her head in disbelief.

“Is there an alienage in Arelsans?”

“Oh, no ma’am. That is, I mean to say, there _is_. A small one. But that’s not where I’m from. I grew up in the alienage in Val Royeaux.”

Freya knew that the alienage in Val Royeaux was one of the poorest in Thedas, as well as being the most crowded, and one of the most violent.

“Coming to the Marchand Estate must have seemed like quite the opportunity for a Val Royeaux elf,” she said.

“My mother thought it would be the best thing for me. She sent me to be Lady Marchand’s handmaid when I was fourteen. I haven’t seen her in almost seven years, now.”

“That must be hard. I miss my _mamae_ , too. She died a few months ago.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Your Wor—sorry. _Freya.”_

“Does the alienage in Val Royeaux have a _vhenadahl?”_

“Oh, yes. My mother used to take us to see it every week, and we’d lay a scrap of ribbon at its roots.”

“I’ve always thought the trees were such a nice tradition. A way to remember Arlathan. We’ve grown apart as a people, but there are still some bonds that remain… Skyhold used to have a _vhenadahl_ , you know. I read about it in one of the books here.”

“Oh, was Skyhold an elvhen castle?” asked Mariel, looking surprised.

“No,” Freya replied, shaking her head. “It was built by humans over a place sacred to the elvhen. The _vhenadahl_ was chopped down before they laid the foundation. It was turned into a table. The table is still here, as a matter of fact. We use it to plan battle strategies. The humans took an ancient elvhen symbol of peace and turned it into an instrument of war.”

“That’s _terrible.”_

“I tell you this," Freya went on, "because I believe it’s important to remember that a tree grows many branches, but they all share the same roots. When we’re cut down, we're all cut down together.”

“Mariel!  _Merde_ , where has she gone off to?”

Lady Marchand’s shrill voice carried across the courtyard from some unseen location, and Mariel’s eyes immediately snapped wide.

“I better not let her catch me out here,” she said. “She’ll think I was being lazy.”

“There’s nothing wrong with taking a little break,” answered Freya with a frown.

“There is if you’re an elven servant in an Orlesian household, ma’am. I’d better go. Thanks so much for letting me look around the garden!”

And with that, the young elf tuned on her heels and hurried off toward the main entrance of the castle.


	9. Divide and Conquer

_Tap-tap-tap._

Cullen looked up toward the sound of knuckles rapping against his office door. He pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning softly.

“Who is it?” he called out, voice weighted with dread.

“It’s Barris, Sir!”

 _Thank the Maker,_ he thought as he breathed a sigh, never having been so relieved to hear Delrin’s voice. He beckoned for him to come in, and the Knight-Commander entered, closing the door quietly behind him. He looked over at Cullen and gave him a knowing smirk.

“I see you finally managed to shake off Lady Marchand.”

“Only just. She left about fifteen minutes ago, and when you knocked just now I thought maybe she’d come back. I’m supposed to let her observe my work as often she likes, so I just tried to make sure my duties were as boring as possible this afternoon. It took her watching me read and approve a _dozen_  requisition requests in absolute silence before she finally had enough and excused herself.”

Cullen could tell by Delrin’s expression that he was trying hard to keep from laughing.

“Oh, sure. It’s terribly entertaining for _you_ , I bet.”

“I’m sorry, Sir,” said Delrin, not bothering to try to mask his amusement now. “It’s just so thoroughly _ridiculous_. The whole thing.”

“Agreed,” said Cullen. “Do you know she tried to wear a pair of high-heeled shoes out to the training grounds? I had to fish one of them out of the mud when she got stuck halfway across the courtyard and then listen to the infernal things click-clacking for two hours as she followed me around the castle like a damned papillon.”

At this, Ser Barris did let out a laugh, shaking his head as he muttered, “Fucking Orlesians.”

“And that new ambassador of Celene's is no better,” Cullen went on, his expression darkening. “If I have to hear him call Freya _‘darleeng’_ one more time…”

Delrin’s face became more serious now, seeing that his boss found absolutely nothing funny about this aspect of the situation.

“Do you think he’s trying to make a move on her?” he asked, leaning against the bookshelves.

He watched as Cullen sank down heavily in his chair—a piece of furniture that he’d rarely seen used as anything but a gathering place for stacks of ledgers and reports. It had been cleared off and moved to the front of the desk, obviously to ensure Lady Marchand had a comfortable place to sit.

“I don’t know,” Cullen replied, shrugging. “Maybe I’m just overreacting. I can’t tell if he’s actually flirting, or if he’s just excessively _Orlesian_. But he was in my seat at lunch again and when I looked over and saw him put a hand on her knee, I bent my fork in half.”

Delrin looked like he was pondering something, his brow furrowed.

“Sir, you don’t think this is part of a ploy, do you?” he asked after a moment.

“How do you mean?”

“Well, they’ve got you distracted with a beautiful nobleman’s daughter—I know she’s a _nightmare_ , but you have to admit, she’s not hard on the eyes—and now they’ve hired this new ambassador, who just happens to be rich and charming, and he’s been glued to the Inquisitor’s side every chance he gets. What if they’re trying to drive a wedge to destabilize things?”

Cullen’s expression became more and more troubled as he listened to Ser Barris.

“We _are_ the two figures in the castle with the most control over our military arm…”

“I mean, it’s a classic battle strategy, isn’t it? Divide and conquer.”

“But seduction?” asked Cullen, looking nonplussed. “Surely _that_ wouldn’t be their grand plan.”

“All due respect, Sir, but I think you’re forgetting who we’re dealing with. What do Orlesians love best, apart from murder and wine?”

“Sex.”

“Exactly. This is _precisely_ the sort of thing they’d do.”

Cullen chewed on the inside of his cheek, mulling this over. Could the Orlesians really have orchestrated all this on purpose? He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.

“What do I do?” he asked.

“Well, if it were me, I’d keep a close eye on Lefebvre, and I would make sure you keep things nice and dull for Lady Marchand. Don’t let her observe anything that might be remotely sensitive.”

“Right,” said Cullen. Keeping things boring at this time of year wouldn’t be hard; while the Inquisitor was still at Skyhold, most of their sensitive operations were on hold, anyhow. And the less Aceline wanted to hang around, the better. “That’s a good plan.”

“And if I may say, Sir?” Delrin added as he straightened, preparing to leave. “Try to keep from destroying any more silverware. You don’t want them to think their plan is working.”


	10. Mala mis’in alin da’lav

By the time Cullen made it up to their room that night, Freya was already lounging in bed against a nest of pillows, covers pulled up over her chest and her mother’s journal in her lap.

Josephine had requested that Cullen not be seen entering the Inquisitor’s chambers, especially after dark, so he’d had to loiter in the entrance hall long after she’d gone up herself. Most of that time had been spent answering dozens of questions from Aceline about Templar life, including some rather personal ones about whether promises of chastity were involved. He’d almost betrayed a smile at this, remembering how Freya had asked him very nearly the same question not long after coming to Haven, causing him to stammer and flush like a virgin schoolboy. Somehow, though, coming from Lady Marchand the question was a lot less endearing. In the end, Ser Barris had finally rescued him by inventing an urgent matter he needed to speak about, pulling him into a corner until Aceline had grown impatient and huffed off to her rooms, barking at Mariel to run ahead and make sure the bedwarmer was in place.

He undressed in the middle of the room now without speaking, bitter anger at having to keep up this ridiculous charade bubbling softly below the surface. He supposed he should just be glad they hadn’t followed Josephine’s initial suggestion that he temporarily move back to his old quarters above his office. Freya had immediately put her foot down about that, reminding the Ambassador that Cullen’s condition was still highly variable from day to day, and that her ability to treat him quickly and quietly would be even more paramount this week. After a bit of back-and-forth between the two women, Josephine had compromised by allowing the current arrangement. And so here he was, sneaking into his own bedroom like a thief in the night.

Freya watched over the top of her book as Cullen stripped off his tunic, his mind clearly elsewhere as he readied himself for bed. _Gods_ , it was hard to stay mad at a man that looked like that… She set the journal down on her bedside table and folded her hands in her lap.

“You’re quiet,” she observed as he unlaced his leggings and kicked them off roughly.

“Wasn’t sure if you were feeling particularly chatty.” Pulling back the covers a bit more forcefully than was strictly necessary, he climbed into the bed, yanking them back up over his waist. They both sat there next to one another in silence for a moment, neither looking at the other.

Freya picked at a hangnail and tried to sound casual as she asked, “So… how was your tour?”

_“Annoying.”_

She felt a small amount of satisfaction at this, but tried to hide it as she replied with a simple, “Oh?”

“Yes. Lady Marchand is… difficult to tolerate.” He turned to her. “How was yours? You and Jean Paul seemed to be having a very good time together.”

His face looked drawn and there was a hard edge to his voice. Freya’s mouth quirked up into a gentle smile.

 _“Mala mis’in alin da’lav,”_ she said.

“What?”

“It’s a Dalish expression. ‘Now the blade is in the other hand.’ Remember when you implied I was being unreasonable and guilting you for following your duty? Well”—she shrugged—“now you’re getting a little taste of what I was feeling.”

He frowned at this.

“Yes, and I _hate_ it,” he confessed, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Is he really being that flirtatious?” she asked, looking skeptical. “I mean, sure, he seems fond of me, but—”

“He put his hand on your leg at lunch, Freya.”

“Okay, but Dorian does that sort of thing all the time. It’s never bothered you.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“Why?” Freya asked, her tone bordering on defensiveness. “Because he prefers the company of men?”

“No,” he insisted. “Because he’s your _best friend._ It’s not about who he’s attracted to, it’s about the nature of the relationship. Cole hugs you all the time. I’ve seen Bull give you a peck on the cheek once or twice. But they’re _different_. They travel all over the world with you. They’re basically _family_ at this point. Jean Paul barely knows you. It’s awfully forward of him to put his hands on you at all. You would think that someone in his position would know better, wouldn’t you?”

“Their culture is different from ours,” she said, shrugging again. “I figured he was just, you know… being Orlesian.”

“That thought had crossed my mind,” admitted Cullen. “But I think it’s more than that. And beyond just my own jealousy—Yes, I’m admitting it, I’m jealous. Stop giving me that look—Barris said something earlier today that has me thinking maybe he’s not just coming onto you for the sake of getting into your bed.”

Freya arched a brow at him, cottoning on.

“You think it’s some kind of power grab?”

“Think about it,” he said, turning to her. He ticked off the evidence on his fingers as he talked. “They send Lady Marchand here to occupy my time. Meanwhile, Celene hires a new ambassador who just happens to be up to his eyeballs in gold and who incredibly doesn’t seem to know the basic rules of propriety in dealing with a lady. It’s not exactly a secret we’ve been sleeping together for months, now. In spite of Josie’s insistence on keeping up the facade, none of them are stupid. So how better to destabilize our military than by causing a rift between the two people in the keep who control it?" Freya was giving him an incredulous stare. “What? You don’t think it’s possible?”

“I’ll admit it’s _possible_ ,” she said with a tilt of her head. “But I’m not convinced that Jean Paul putting a hand on my knee has _‘Orlesian Coup’_ written all over it. I mean, of all the people they could send to seduce me, _that’s_  who they went with?”

“You don’t think he’s attractive?” The question came out of his mouth with a much more obvious note of hope in his tone than he’d been going for.

Freya’s expression got, if anything, even more disbelieving.

“You’re not _serious?”_ she asked. “I mean, he’s not bad in the face, I’ll give you that. But he looks like one of those characters from those absurd Val Royeaux puppet shows where everyone whacks one another with sticks.”

Cullen actually snorted at this, his face splitting into the first real smile he’d worn in almost two days.

“Come on,” Freya said, nudging him. “You know my type. Tall, blonde. Lets me win at chess.”

He uncrossed his arms, looking at her with the grin still on his lips.

“Listen,” he said, taking a deep breath,“I know I've upset you. And I was wrong to make it seem like your feelings about this whole thing were unreasonable. You were right—when the situation was reversed, I didn’t care for it at all." He paused and brushed a hand against her cheek, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’m sorry, Freya.”

“Thank you for saying that, _ma’_ _nehn_.”

She scooted over under the covers, and he wrapped his arms around her, snuggling her into the warmth of his bare chest. Freya inhaled deeply, the scent of him bringing with it a wave of comfort and familiarity. He always carried about him a gentle whiff of oakmoss and elderflower, components of a tincture she had concocted to help him cope with the pain from his withdrawal. It was a welcome change from Ambassador Lefebvre's strong cologne, which had been invading her nostrils all day.

“I missed you today.”

She felt his words as he said them, a low rumbling vibration against her cheek.

“I missed you too,” she answered, and he could hear the smile in her voice.

They sat there for a moment, enjoying the soft sound of the fire crackling away in the otherwise silent room. Then Cullen shifted, looking down at Freya as she lifted her head to meet his eye.

“I really _do_ think they’re up to something,” he said, then quickly added, “Not that I would blame him if his only motivation was seeing you naked.”

Freya remained unconvinced, but her grin transformed into look of sincerity nonetheless.

“If you feel that strongly about it,” she told him, “we can call a meeting tomorrow and explain your concerns to the other advisors. It doesn’t hurt to be cautious.”

“Agreed,” he said with a nod.

“Now,” said Freya, lacing her fingers into Cullen’s and settling back against his shoulder, “I want you to tell me all about how _insufferable_ Aceline was today. Spare no details.”

Cullen laughed at this, covering his eyes with his other hand.

“Maker,” he said, chuckling. “How much time have you got? It was an absolute nightmare of a day. Started going downhill from the moment we walked out of the keep, and all because of her _shoes_..."


	11. Hearth Cakes and Sugar Bandits

Cullen made sure to rise in plenty of time to walk down to breakfast with Freya the next morning, pleased to see that they were among the first in the dining hall. He took his usual seat next to her, and when Josephine entered, eyeing them with a furrowed brow, he shot her a defiant look. She must have decided it wasn’t a hill worth dying on just then, because she pulled out the seat on the Inquisitor's other side and sat without a word.

Jean Paul, on the other hand, seemed entirely unfussed with his preferred spot being taken and seated himself at Freya’s opposite instead, helping himself to a couple of fat sausages and making lighthearted conversation about the morning’s weather. Josephine passed him a plate piled high with flat cakes that were studded with bits of dried currant.

“Ambassador Lefebvre, may I interest you in a Dalish hearth cake?” she asked.

“Oh,” said Jean Paul, eyes widening. “ _Merci,_  these look delicious! I’m so happy to see more Dalish food on the table. Did you eat these in your clan, Inquisitor Lavellan?”

Freya tried not to look too satisfied about Josephine's obvious effort to include more Dalish dishes as she nodded. “If I’m not much mistaken, these are actually my mother’s own recipe. I gave it to our cook ages ago, and she makes them about once a week for breakfast. Try letting a little butter melt over them first. Halla or otherwise, whichever you prefer.”

Lady Marchand arrived in the dining hall a few seconds later, and, seeing that all the seats near Cullen were occupied, begrudgingly took the spot diagonal from Freya on the other side of Jean Paul, instead, watching him digging into his hearth cakes.

“Delicious!” he proclaimed, chewing with gusto. “Sweeter than I expected. Your mother clearly knew her way around a kitchen.”

Freya gave him a gracious smile. “Well, aravels don’t really have _kitchens_ , per se,” she told him, “but she would appreciate the compliment, I’m sure.”

“My governess always told me that the Dalish can't grow sugarcane or wheat to make flour, so they raid human homesteads and traveling parties and steal it instead.”

A hush fell over the table at Aceline’s words. Several pairs of eyes turned toward Freya as someone let their cutlery drop with a clatter against their plate. Dorian put a hand to his mouth and appeared torn between being affronted on Freya’s behalf and gleefully awaiting what he hoped would be a scathing response.

“That’s an interesting theory,” said Freya, fixing Aceline with a keen stare. “I don’t suppose she ever stopped to consider that maybe we just, I don’t know… _traded_ for it, like we do with everything else we don’t produce ourselves?”

“I didn’t think the Dalish traded with many outsiders,” Aceline replied, her haughty expression unchanged. She seemed either not to notice or not to care that her suggestion had been offensive in any way.

“That’s a common misconception. Many clans do. Most, actually. Even the ones who aren’t terribly fond of humans are happy to interact with them long enough to exchange goods. And for the elves who don’t wish to do so, they trade with the clans who do. No acts of _larceny_ necessary.” Freya paused, picking up her knife and fork and looking away from Aceline to cut into her cakes. “Mind you, I’m sure some Dalish have made a living as thieves. Every bush has a few sour berries, as my _mamae_ always said. But I think if packs of Dalish sugar bandits were roving the highways robbing innocent families of their sundry goods, the Inquisition would have heard about it by now.”

Dorian let out a loud snort at "Dalish sugar bandits," and Aceline ate in silence after that.

When the meal was nearly over, Freya leaned over to Josephine and whispered in her ear. “We need to speak. Leliana, too. Can you make an excuse for a quick morning meeting before we go about our days?”

Josephine gave her a nod and then stood, smoothing her skirt as she cleared her throat.

“I apologize, but a small bit of Inquisition business requires a brief moment of our time this morning before we begin our itineraries for the day. You may feel invited to explore the libraries, or to stroll the courtyard or gardens, if you wish. A member of staff will accompany you to whichever location you prefer and will be at your disposal, should you need anything.”

As she drained the last swallow of coffee from her cup, Freya thought to herself that she had to hand it to Josie on this one—it was rather wise of her to send someone along to watch them, cloaked under the guise of good hospitality.

Within a few moments of leaving the table, the three advisors had all assembled with her in the War Room.

“Is everything all right, Inquisitor?” Leliana’s brow was knit with concern as she leaned a hip against the edge of the table.

“A good question," replied Freya, "and not one I feel I can answer with certainty. Cullen has a suspicion about the Orlesian delegation that I think you ought to hear.”

She gestured at Cullen, inviting him to speak, and he relayed the conversation he’d had with Ser Barris the day before. When he'd finished, he looked between Leliana and Josephine, who both appeared to be considering the situation.

“I had noticed that Ambassador Lefebvre was a bit… _flirtatious_ with the Inquisitor,” admitted Josephine, tapping her quill thoughtfully against her clipboard.

Cullen shot Freya a look that plainly said _I told you so_. She scoffed, rolling her eyes.

“It certainly wouldn’t hurt to investigate,” Leliana said with a shrug. “While the dignitaries are spread about the castle today, I can have some of our agents check their rooms. Freya, you should let your inner circle know. They can be extra eyes and ears.”

“What are the assignments for the day, anyway?” Freya asked. “My itinerary just has me doing my normal duties for today, so I assume all of them are otherwise occupied?”

“Briala and Bastien will have their first day with Leliana,” Josephine said, looking at her notes. “Brother Marceau will be with Mother Giselle for most of the rest of his time here. Jean Paul is to accompany me today, and discuss matters of a diplomatic nature. And, of course, Aceline will be permitted to shadow the Commander at her pleasure, and is otherwise free to engage in leisure activities of her choice. She has been provided with a list of things to do around Skyhold.”

“None of which will meet her standards, I’m sure,” said Cullen, sounding irritable.

“She really is an unbearable snob,” said Leliana in agreement. “I’m just glad she’s not my assignment.”

“Thanks, Leli. That’s _very_ helpful.”

“I guess this explains why the two of you made a point to sit together at breakfast,” said Josephine, looking from Cullen to Freya.

“Yes,” replied the elf. “And I saw the disapproving look it garnered, too.”

“Well,” said Josephine, looking somewhat apologetic, “under the circumstances, I think I may have changed my tune on that a bit. I still think it best if there is nothing, ah, how shall I say…? Nothing too _overt_ about your romantic relationship. But I also think we may no longer need to make such a show of keeping you so visibly separated all the time. Ser Barris has a point—we don’t want the Orlesians to think they have the upper hand.”

“And speaking of our foreign friends, we’d best not keep them waiting too much longer,” Leliana said. “I’ll have a brief word with my people and then go and find Briala and Bastien.”

Josephine nodded.

“If one of you could have Jean Paul sent to my office,” she said, tucking her quill away, “I can receive him there and get started with our day. Remind me of what’s on your schedule, Inquisitor?”

“Skirmish practice with Heir,” replied Freya darkly, exchanging a look with Cullen.

It was hard to tell from the pair's expressions which of them was looking forward to their morning less.


	12. Riposte

Dorian strode irritably across the courtyard, eyes darting to and fro as he searched the landscape for Lady Marchand, thinking to himself that Rutherford owed him a drink for this. Or several.

After trying himself to find Aceline for a quarter of an hour, Cullen had given up, needing to get to his office to read a new report from Knight Captain Rylen in the Western Approach. Somehow—and he was now _very_ much regretting it—Dorian had allowed himself to be talked into taking over the task, searching first in the libraries and then the main common areas of the keep before heading outside. Cullen had maintained he’d already looked around the grounds, but unless the woman had a hitherto unknown knack for stealth—which was unlikely, given those skirts—there weren’t really any other places she could be.

After checking the tavern, the sparring grounds, and the garden, he finally headed someplace he would never have thought to check if it hadn’t been literally the last available option.

Sure enough, Lady Marchand was standing near the stables. She was a good distance away and seemed to be admiring the different breeds of horses in their stalls, but was giving Freya’s huge piebald elk, Flapjack, a wary look.

“He doesn’t bite,” Dorian said as he walked up to her, causing Aceline to start and turn around in surprise. “Well, not _that_ hard.”

“Why on earth is a wild animal such as this in your barn?” she asked, gesturing at the elk.

“For the same reason the horses are,” he replied with a shrug. “To be ridden.”

“Who would be mad enough to ride an elk?” she asked, a look of shock on her face.

“The Inquisitor, of course. She does like to make an entrance.”

“It is a striking animal, to be sure, but it seems a bit, well… _dangerous_.”

“Flapjack is harmless,” Dorian said with a wave of his hand. It wasn’t _entirely_ true—he’d seen the animal flip a man into the air with his antlers like it was a child’s ragdoll on more than one occasion. But they’d deserved it.

Aceline had quirked an eyebrow so high Dorian thought it would disappear behind her perfectly coifed blonde curls.

“The hart’s name is  _Flapjack?_ ”

“That’s right.”

“Your Inquisitor named this majestic beast after a _pancake_.”

“She did. It was either that or ' Ser Prongs, High Hoof of the Herald of Andraste, Lord of the Skyhold Stables.' Needless to say, we’re all glad she settled on Flapjack.”

Aceline looked as though she thoroughly disapproved of both, but rather than stating an opinion on the matter, she chose to change the subject.

“Have you seen _le Commandant?”_ she asked, turning to face him. “He was supposed to come to get me when he was done with his meeting. They are taking _ages_.”

“Actually,” said Dorian, “that’s why I’m here. He did his best to find you, but I think he probably didn’t think to check the stables. He needed to attend to some business in his study, so he asked me to find you and bring you to him.”

Dorian offered his elbow, and Aceline, looking as though she’d really rather not, took it.

“You are from Tevinter, I understand?” she asked as they walked.

“I am.”

“And do you find it very different here in Ferelden?”

“Yes,” said Dorian, nodding. “But generally in a refreshing sort of way. I think it’s the lack of bloodthirsty Magisters and elven slaves.”

“Your family are Magisters, I thought.”

“Yes. That’s rather a large portion of my point.”

“Did _you_ not own slaves?” she asked, giving him a look.

“My father certainly does. Nearly all the Altus families do. Something I would like to change, should I ever get the chance.”

“Such a shame that it’s still in practice there.”

They were mounting a staircase now that would lead to the ramparts, and Aceline clung to him as she had to Cullen, struggling with the incline in her ever-impractical shoes.

“I’ve heard that in many Orlesian households, the situation for elves is nearly the same. The only difference is that Tevinter calls it what it is.”

Aceline looked affronted at this.  “We _pay_ our servants,” she said.

“Oh yes?” asked Dorian. “Good wages, are they?”

“Enough to put food on the table and clothes on their backs. Anyway, many of them practically _beg_ to be taken in by a noble family. It is a very good station for a rabbit.”

At this, Dorian stopped dead in his tracks. Aceline stumbled a little and looked at him, surprised to have been halted halfway between stairs.

Freya had always sort of embraced the term ‘rabbit,’ in a funny kind of way. She often referred to herself as such, and had never expressed that she was deeply offended by it. He’d even called her that himself on occasion—in jest, of course—and she had assured him that she considered it a term of endearment coming from her dearest friend. But to hear it out of this wealthy Orlesian’s mouth, knowing how much history and bad blood there was between their people? Not on _his_ watch.

“You don’t have permission to use that word while at Skyhold,” he told her.

“It’s not meant to be derogatory,” she insisted, looking affronted at the suggestion. “It’s because of the shape of—”

“You’ll notice,” Dorian interjected, prompting an even more offended look from Aceline, “that the Inquisitor has never used the term _shemlen_  in your presence. It is also a word that is not, in and of itself, inherently offensive. It just means ‘quick child,’ so coined because humans used to have relatively short lifespans compared to elves. However, it is used by elves in a manner that is generally considered insulting toward humans nowadays. I have never heard her utter it, either here at the keep or out on a mission. Not _once_. So while you are here, you will please do her the same dignity and refer to her race by their proper name.”

Perhaps it was because he was nobility, or perhaps because their respective countries saw little difference in how elves were treated on the whole, but she seemed to be thoroughly shocked at this sudden and unexpected admonishment. Undoubtedly, she thought the two of them had more in common than they did. Aceline blinked once or twice, her mouth slightly agape, before seeming to recover and composing herself again. At the same time, the loud clash of metal on metal drew their attention away from the conversation, and they both looked toward the direction of the noise.

Heir and Freya had arrived on the sparring grounds now and were engaging in a quick-paced skirmish. Dorian resumed climbing the steps, and Aceline followed suit, keeping half an eye on the Inquisitor down in the yard as they walked in silence.

As they crossed the ramparts, Aceline stopped for a moment, watching the two Dalish women as they battled down below. They were using real weapons today, Dorian noted, which was unusual. He had been hastily briefed on Cullen's suspicions about the Orlesians and their motives. Perhaps this decision was a show of bravado for their visiting guests.

“I will admit I am surprised at the gracefulness of your Inquisitor’s fighting,” she said, eyes following Freya’s form.

“Yes, well,” said Dorian, stepping up next to Aceline to watch alongside her, “prior to becoming the Inquisitor, I'm told she was a gifted dancer in her clan. She would perform for huge gatherings of Dalish elves. When she was thrust into this life, she put some of those same skills to use. Only now she has daggers in her hands instead of fire wands. She likes to say that battle is just ‘dancing to kill.’”

“A bit of a distasteful sentiment,” said Aceline, making a sour face.

“Come now, your father is a military man. Weren’t you sent here essentially to see how well equipped we are to kill other men?”

“That’s not quite how _I_ would put it.”

They watched in silence for a moment as Heir artfully flicked one of Freya’s daggers out of her hand, and then the other. Freya answered by sneakily reaching into a leg holster for another knife.

_“Mon Dieu_ , where did that blade come from?” asked Aceline, looking reluctantly impressed.

Dorian chuckled at this.

“Oh, she hides them all over. We were in a fight once where she’d lost both of her daggers—one of them was still sticking out of a man's chest—and she just kept pulling them out of nowhere. When we were done and we were gathering them all up, I actually asked her how many knives she keeps on her person at any given time.”

“And what did she say?” asked Aceline, observing with interest as Freya bested Heir and pinned her to the ground, the knife hovering inches above the tutor’s face.

“ _‘Always one more than you think.’_ Come along.” He offered his elbow once more. “ _Le Commandant_ is waiting.”


	13. A Tense Exchange of Words

“I was not expecting so much of your job to be paperwork, Commander Rutherford.”

Aceline stared out through the thin slit window in Cullen’s office. She had been peppering the silence with pointed sighs for the last half hour, asking a question here and there but mostly looking terribly bored and scowling at the training grounds where Freya was still working with Heir.

“What was it you expected, exactly?”

“I figured you would be more involved in the soldiers’ training. You know, _physically.”_

“I leave that to my officers, in the main,” he said, not taking his eyes off the parchment he was reviewing. “I do usually oversee morning training, but even that is mostly just correcting and giving advice. I rarely actually participate in skirmishes.”

“Afraid you’ll hurt someone?” Aceline gave him a smirk.

 _Lately, more afraid I’ll hurt myself,_ he mused silently, thinking about the toll the lyrium withdrawal was taking on his body.

“I’m not as young as I once was. Best to save my energy for the big fights.”

“But surely you must still train to keep your physique.”

“I do, a couple times a week,” he explained, glancing up. Her flattery, though it was perfectly useless, did not go unnoticed. “Usually I knock swords with Barris or Seeker Pentaghast. Occasionally the Inquisitor and I will practice together.”

Aceline raised an eyebrow at this, looking back out the window.

“I would think someone of her stature would be a bit intimidated to fight a warrior such as yourself. She is doing well against her tutor, but they are well-matched in size.”

Cullen laughed at this.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to underestimate the Inquisitor,” he advised. “She’s small, but she’s quick with her knives, and there’s not much that scares her. She’s slain _dragons_ , she’s not going to be daunted by an aging soldier with a wooden sword.”

There was a moment of silence as Aceline seemed to mull this over. Then she crossed from the window to the plush armchair in front of the desk, sitting down heavily.

“What is it you are working on now?”

“Mostly information gathering, strategizing for the Inquisitor’s next mission.”

“And where will that be taking her?”

Cullen glanced up at Aceline.

“I’m afraid that information is confidential,” he told her.

She scoffed at this, leaning back and crossing her arms over her chest.

“What use is it having me observe your work if all you do is read papers and I cannot even ask you questions?”

“Much of what we do must be kept classified,” Cullen said, giving her a shrug, “to protect our work, and the Inquisitor herself, without whom we cannot hope to close the Breach. There are a great many people in the service of the enemy who would be keen to know our next move. We can’t risk telling outsiders.”

“Surely you do not think _I_ am here as a spy for Corypheus?” asked Aceline with a laugh.

“We can't be too careful," he replied. "Sometimes people aren’t who you think they are.”

Aceline crossed one leg over the other underneath her many skirts.

“Like your ‘Warden’ friend, who turned out to be a murderer?”

Cullen straightened his back at this, standing at full height to look Aceline in the eye.

“Ranier has made terrible mistakes, for which he will likely never be capable of forgiving himself. But he is doing his best to atone for that, through his work with the Inquisition.”

It was not lost on him that those very words could be used to describe himself, as well, and perhaps it was because of this that Aceline’s words had stirred his anger so. Truth be told, a part of him was still furious with Ranier for his deception—but he’d upheld his promise to keep Freya safe, and for that, he had to be grateful to the man.

“The Inquisitor should never have pardoned him,” Aceline said, her face scornful. “He is a traitor to the Orlesian throne.”

“The Inquisitor does not answer to Empress Celene,” replied Cullen, an icy note in his voice. “She saw it in her heart to be merciful and forgiving, something I understand is probably a foreign concept to most of your countrymen. I find it one of her most attractive traits, myself.”

He took some satisfaction in the way Aceline had visibly bristled at the word "attractive," and he set down his papers, carefully turning them over so that only the blank backsides were visible to her curious gaze.

“It’s nearly time for lunch,” he went on. “We should head down to the dining hall. But if your only intention while you are here is to continue to list your criticisms of the Inquisitor and our operations here at Skyhold, might I suggest you find a way to occupy your afternoon that will be less tiresome for us both?”

The look of mild shock on Aceline’s face was worth any telling-off he might later get from Josephine for his decidedly un-diplomatic response. He crossed to his door and opened it, waving a hand in a gesture to invite her out.

“Ladies first.”

_________________________

 

Lunch was a simple spread that day, with cold cuts of roast chicken and a few different varieties of cheese accompanying rustic loaves of bread and several trays of fruit.

Lady Marchand had plucked a few grapes off a bunch and laid them in a sad pile on her plate, alongside a small wedge of cheddar. She gave the rest of the offerings disdainful looks as she picked at her food.

Freya, on the other hand, was ravenous from hours of exercise and took a bit of everything, digging in eagerly.

“You seem to have quite the appetite,” said Jean Paul, pulling out a chair. “You must have had an exhilarating workout this morning.”

Freya made an affirmative sound around a mouthful of cheese, catching the look Cullen shot at Jean Paul, clearly disapproving of Freya being described as “exhilarating” by anyone other than himself. Jean Paul, however, was busy reaching for a pitcher of ale and seemed not to notice.

“The Inquisitor’s instructor is an assassin of some renown hailing from the Arbor Wilds. Her training regimen is quite rigorous.” Josephine’s tone was quite casual, but Freya recognized the look on her face. She was playing The Grand Game for real, now, measuring each word with care. So often, Freya made the mistake of treating Josephine as a glorified party planner, but in these moments where she really shined, the Inquisitor was forcibly reminded that her Ambassador had quite the colorful past. She could play the sunny diplomat well, but the grim shadow of her former life still crept forward now and again, and today Freya was grateful for it. She concealed the merest hint of a grin behind her goblet.

Leliana arrived shortly after this, with Briala and Bastien in tow, discussing the finer points of raven husbandry. This prompted a volley of questions from Jean Paul, who was a rapt audience for Leliana’s humorous stories about her favorite birds in the rookery. At some point during one of these anecdotes, Aceline slipped quietly away from the table, leaving her plate mostly untouched.

Freya leaned over to Cullen, lowering her voice.

“Lady Marchand seems not to be in good spirits. Did something happen?”

Cullen glanced at Josephine to make sure she wasn’t paying attention. “We had somewhat of a tense exchange of words,” he explained in an undertone. “She said some things that were… well, let’s just say I didn’t feel they could stand without a response, and my replies were not entirely to her liking, I’m afraid.”

Freya betrayed a smile at this.

“Probably good for her,” she said, popping a grape into her mouth.

“Rather.”

The rest of the meal went by uneventfully, and as soon as everyone had eaten their fill, they all stood and made ready to go back to their various tasks for the afternoon. Freya arched her back as she straightened, wincing at the ache in her fatigued muscles.

“What are you up to this afternoon?” Cullen asked before draining the rest of his ale.

“A large pile papers on my desk that I’ve been avoiding since Satinalia,” she admitted. “The sorts of things I can’t just pass off to Josie to write and then add my signature to.”

“That sounds like exactly the sort of thing you want to spend your afternoon doing,” he said, smirking. “Sitting still in a chair, writing out personal correspondences to people you haven’t met.”

“Better that than spending the afternoon with Aceline,” she replied as she moved her chair back into place against the table.

“Oh,” Cullen replied, still giving her that crooked grin. “Somehow I don’t think I have to worry about that today...”


	14. Augury

Freya had slogged her way through most of the stack of correspondences by suppertime, and Cullen’s familiar footfalls on the steps to their chambers came as a welcome sound as she finished penning a letter to Queen Anora, updating her on the progress of several ongoing missions in Ferelden. She set her quill down and stretched her cramped fingers as Cullen crested the steps, his nose and cheeks rosy from the chilly walk across the battlements.

He gave the stack of finished letters an approving look.

“That should keep Leliana’s ravens busy for a few days,” he said, leaning a hip against the desk.

“I think I signed my name about three dozen times this afternoon,” complained Freya, inspecting her ink-blotched fingertips.

“Well, all you’ll have to lift for the rest of the evening is your silverware. I’m fairly certain I smelled onion soup on my way past the dining hall. Supper should be just about ready.”

“Thank the gods,” she said, standing and arching her back. “I could use a glass of wine.”

“Josephine has asked that we meet briefly beforehand to discuss our little hunch,” Cullen told her. “We should head down as soon as you’re ready.”

Freya folded the letter to Anora, dripping molten wax over the crisp edge of the paper and adding her seal, which ended up a bit off-kilter in her haste. Then the two of them made their way out of their chambers and down the long hall to the war room. When they opened the door, Josephine and Leliana were already inside, waiting for them to arrive.

Freya handed Leliana the stack of letters she’d written.

“Sorry for the backlog,” she told her. “They’re in order of importance, with the most time-sensitive ones on top. Anything toward the bottom can wait until Harvestmere, for all I care.”

Leliana took the letters and set them next to her on the table, then picked up a sheaf of paper, upon which there were scribbled several notes.

“Thank you, Inquisitor. I have the reports from my agents after searching the rooms of the Orlesian delegates.”

“And?” asked Cullen, eagerness evident in his tone.

“To be frank, things are not much clearer this evening than they were yesterday. Jean Paul had nothing suspicious in his room, just several pages of extensive notes on his conversations with Josephine. Nothing that would be out of place for an Ambassador to report. Our agent also noted that he keeps his room very well-organized and seems to have a fondness for black licorice.”

“And Lady Marchand?” Freya asked.

“The most dangerous thing in her chamber was a curling tong,” Leliana said with a shrug. “She’s also been taking down a report of her conversations with Commander Rutherford, though not nearly to the degree of detail that Jean Paul does. She’s made some notes about how resources are utilized by the troops, interspersed with thinly veiled criticisms of the operations of the Inquisition and our hospitality. Nothing that I think would sway her father away from contributing gold, but she is certainly making it clear how she feels about certain aspects of her stay. And she also apparently has a copy of _The Gilded Lily's Guide to Etiquette and Grace_ on her night table.”

“What’s that?” asked Freya, furrowing her brow.

Leliana and Jospehine exchanged amused looks.

“An infamous guidebook on proper noble conduct for Orlesian ladies,” said Josephine, grinning a little at the growing expression of disgust on Freya’s face. “In essence, it describes the way one would behave in order to attract a suitor of a certain caliber. I’d describe it in more detail, but I wouldn’t like to put you off your dinner.”

“Okay,” said Cullen. “So Lefebvre and Lady Marchand appear to be clean. What about Briala?”

“Ah,” replied Leliana. “That is where things get a bit trickier. Briala is incredibly clever. She not only excels at the Game, but she is also masterful at protecting herself and her Empress’s secrets. The agent I assigned to her didn’t get far into her chambers before she encountered several countermeasures Briala has put in place so that she will know if her things have been tampered with. In order to preserve the illusion that we harbor no suspicion, our agent was forced to abandon the task. So while our two most dubious guests appear to be in the clear for now, we can’t really rule anything out. I propose we continue to exercise extreme caution.”

“Damn,” Cullen said, crossing his arms. “I was really hoping for more.”

“As were we, Commander,” said Josephine. “This puts us all in a thorny position. We must now walk a much thinner line between protecting the Inquisition and maintaining our relationship with Orlais by remaining gracious hosts. I have asked the Iron Bull to assist Leliana’s people in keeping an eye on our guests. His background as a Hissrad could lend a different perspective, and he may notice something our agents do not. Outside of him and Master Pavus, I would recommend that we not tell anyone else about our suspicions. One misstep and we could potentially endanger everything we’ve built so far.”

“Excellent,” Freya replied, drawing her mouth into a thin line. “No pressure, then.”

 

_________________________

 

Perhaps it was only her imagination, but Freya thought that supper seemed a much quieter affair than usual, as if the tension hanging over the four of them had cast a shadow over everyone else. Even Jean Paul, who was normally so effervescent, seemed to have wilted a bit under the cloud of growing distrust, though he still praised the onion soup with enthusiasm and voiced his approval for the evening’s wine selection, as well, both of which were met with polite but restrained acknowledgment by Josephine.

Lady Marchand had not even tried to sit near Cullen this time, choosing instead to take a seat toward the end of the table near Brother Marceau and Mother Giselle. Freya noticed she kept fussing with a single coil of blond hair at her temple, and she seemed not to say a word the whole meal. Looking down the length of the table, Freya also noticed that Mariel was absent, leaving one chair conspicuously empty. She frowned at this. The elf hadn’t missed a single meal thus far, and though she was relatively quiet, she seemed to rather enjoy experiencing all the new kinds of foods at the table.

Once everyone had finished, they all made their way out of the dining hall, their various conversations more subdued than normal as they headed toward their chambers for the night. Freya was so lost in her own thoughts that she almost collided headlong into Cole.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, reaching out a hand to brush against his sleeve. “I’m so sorry Cole, I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

“You’re wondering about the elf," he replied. "You see her when others don’t.” His pale eyes peered sorrowfully at her from underneath his hat. “Invisible, but not to you. Yet she hurts where even you can’t see.”

“What do you mean, Cole?” asked Freya, frowning. “She hurts where I can’t see? Do you mean inside, like she's sad?”

He shook his head.

“Fading blossoms, black and blue, blows aimed where they can hide beneath her clothes.”

“Cole,” Freya said, pulling him away from the throng of people, stepping close to the nearest wall and lowering her voice so it was barely above a whisper. “Are you saying… do the Marchands _hit_ Mariel?”

Cole glanced away as she said it, avoiding her gaze the way he always seemed to when he was delivering unpleasant revelations.

“Hungry and hurting, but you could help her.” He turned his face back toward her, looking her in the eye now, his face earnest and hopeful. “Break her chains, and the elf will one day be your deliverance.”

With that, he ducked away and hurried off, leaving Freya staring at his retreating form, her mind now reeling as a dark anger spread over her, a storm cloud gathering before the tempest.


	15. A Proposition

“Do we have any proof? Or is it just what Cole said?”

Cullen was laying in bed watching Freya pace the room with her arms folded over her chest. She hadn’t even prepared for sleep yet, other than angrily yanking her boots off and throwing them in a corner.

“Cullen, when has Cole ever been wrong?” she asked, striding from the bed to the fireplace.

He had to give her that; Cole did have an uncanny ability to know things he shouldn’t—things he _couldn’t_ know.

“Well, what do you want to do? Do we tell the others?”

“I think we have to,” she answered, staring into the glowing firelight. “We need to strategize. We have to figure out a way to get her out of there. Preferably without drawing weapons.”

 _Not that I'm opposed if it comes down to it,_ she thought to herself.

“All right, Freya,” said Cullen’s voice, sounding strained. “I’m with you on this. We can tell them first thing.”

She turned to see him with a hand over his head, eyes shut tight. It was a mannerism she recognized.

“ _Ma’nehn_ , you’re hurting,” she murmured, walking back over to his side of the bed. He opened one eye, giving her an apologetic smile.

“Brilliant timing, don’t you think?” he asked, massaging the bridge of his nose. “And here I was hoping we'd catch a break this week. I’m sorry, love.”

“Shhh,” she chided him softly, taking his hand away and laying the back of hers over his forehead. “You know the rules, no apologizing.”

It was such a familiar routine by now that Freya knew the precise order in which to prepare for his symptoms. She began taking out the usual remedies, setting them in a little cluster on her end table and moving their chamber pot next to the bed.

True to form, nausea hit next, acid rising hot in his throat as he tried to swallow it back. He inwardly cursed his body as he accepted Freya’s help, watching her go through the motions of caring for him, unconcerned about anything else in the moment. An hour passed, or perhaps more. He always lost track when he was distracted by the withdrawal. Enough time to go through their entire pitcher of water, in any case.

“I’ll have to go down and get some more,” she told him, brushing a cool cloth over his skin for the dozenth time. “Will you be all right if I leave for a couple of minutes?”

He nodded, closing his eyes and laying back fully, taking the cloth from her and draping it over his forehead. She pressed her lips against his cheek and then stood, grabbing the pitcher and padding barefoot down the cold steps that led to the main hall.

The keep was dark, save for a few lit sconces that cast large dancing shadows over the rough stone walls. Freya had made this trek so many times now that she was sure she could do it with her eyes closed, which was helpful tonight as her mind swam between worrying for her beloved Commander and sweet, shy Mariel.

_Break her chains, and the elf will one day be your deliverance._

What had Cole meant by that? It was hard to see how such a meek little thing could come to be her saving grace someday. But then, who would have thought a Dalish elf would be the salvation of all of Thedas? Fate worked in strange ways.

In any case, whether it would ever be repaid or not, she wouldn't be able to forgive herself if she allowed Mariel to return to such a life.

The kitchens were pitch black, and in her distracted state of mind, Freya realized she hadn’t thought to bring a candle. She felt around until she found a spare one on a windowsill, so short and stubby it was almost unusable, and took it back outside to a sconce to ignite it. It cast a feeble little flicker of light over the room, but it would do.

The water pump was still frozen over, so she crossed to one of the enormous casks of melted snow they’d been using to get through the winter. She opened the tap, a stream of water pouring into the bottom of the pitcher with a low, hollow burbling sound. As she waited for it to fill, she thought of Mariel in the garden, and how fearful she had been of Lady Marchand catching her being idle even for a moment. She had been so interested in all the withered little stalks left over from the herb garden.

It gave her an idea.

 

_________________________

 

“You want to offer her a _job?”_

Leliana was looking at her with her eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Freya said. She was sitting on the war table, her short legs swinging back and forth a little over the edge. “As my apprentice. I've been thinking for a long time that it would be helpful to have someone else versed in herbology who can make potions and heal minor injuries. She can stay at camp while we're on missions and help keep us adequately stocked.”

Josephine and Leliana exchanged surprised looks. Cullen, who had heard the idea the previous night, was standing next to Freya, arms folded over his chest and looking exhausted. She had tried her best to convince him to stay in bed and rest this morning, but he’d insisted on attending the meeting with her to offer support.

"The idea does have merit," Leliana admitted, looking thoughtful. "And the elf could prove useful in figuring out if the Marchands are in on some kind of plot..."

“Is any of this possible without a confrontation?” he asked, looking between the other two advisors. “Are there contracts between noble families and their servants? Or are they free to take other work?”

“It varies from family to family,” Josephine replied. “Some servants can leave whenever they want to, the same as any normal employment arrangement. Some servants, however, are indentured.”

“Indentured?” Freya asked, cocking her head to one side.

“It means they are obligated to work for a certain number of years,” explained the Ambassador. “It’s seen as a form of repayment for the opportunity to get out of the alienage. I am not certain what kind of arrangement the Marchands might have with their servants, but I can find out.”

“In the meantime,” said Leliana, her expression dark, “how do we ensure that this behavior doesn’t continue under our roof? I am afraid that if we let Lady Marchand know that we are aware of the situation, she’ll retaliate by taking it out on Mariel.”

“Let Freya worry about that,” said Cullen, glancing down at her. 

“Commander, are you feeling all right?” asked Josephine, eyeing his ragged expression. “You seem rather worn down this morning.”

“Cullen and I have discussed things,” Freya told her, slipping off of the edge of the table. “His symptoms were persistent last night. Neither of us slept much. I can weather, but we’ve decided he really ought to take the day off to recover. I’ll brief Barris on the situation so that he can take over military duties.”

“And who will occupy Lady Marchand?” asked Leliana, raising an eyebrow. Freya gave her a small smile, the resolute and fearless expression on her face all too familiar to the team of advisors.

“I think it’s high time she got to have a private audience with the Inquisitor, don’t you?”


	16. Changing of the Guard

Freya was pleased to see that Mariel was back at breakfast, though she looked even less spirited than usual. She sat in silence next to Lady Marchand, head down and eyes fixed determinedly on her plate as she ate. Aceline, on the other hand, was following the Inquisitor and her advisors with her eyes and glancing back toward the door, obviously waiting for Cullen to appear. Her expression grew more and more surprised as she watched Freya cross the hall to the head table and take a seat right across from her, giving her a sunny smile.

“Good morning, Lady Marchand,” she said, helping herself to a soft boiled egg. She set it in its cup and tapped it gently with her fork, breaking it open and peeling away the shell fragments. “I hope you slept well.”

“Well enough, thank you, Inquisitor,” Aceline replied, her tone clipped. She fussed with that same lock of hair again, and at this distance, Freya could see that she was endeavoring to cover what looked like an angry red mark on her temple, which she had unsuccessfully tried to hide with cosmetics as well. “Will Commander Rutherford not be joining us this morning? I wished to speak to him.”

Inwardly, Freya was curious as to what Aceline would have to say to Cullen after their uncomfortable exchange the previous day. Was she hoping to apologize, or did she just want to pick another fight? Maybe there was a special chapter in her ridiculous book about how to smooth things over after a row.

“Regrettably, he will not,” Freya said, ripping off a strip from a slice of toast and dipping it into the runny yellow yolk of her egg. “The Commander is feeling under the weather today, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, I am so sorry to hear. Is there anything I can do to help?”

She noted the look of genuine concern on Aceline’s face and had to fight the urge to snort as she imagined this woman, of all people, attempting to care for Cullen—the disgusted look she’d wear as she tried to catch his vomit in an ornate golden chamber pot, holding it at arm’s length so none would splash on her brocade sleeves.

“It’s nothing terribly serious,” she assured her. “What he needs most right now is peace and quiet, and a good rest.”

Aceline appeared somewhat reassured by the knowledge that her would-be beau was not lying on death’s doorstep. She took a dainty sip of tea.

“I suppose I shall just have to find something else to occupy my time today,” she said, looking around the room as though that was going to be quite the challenge.

“Actually,” Freya said brightly, “I was thinking that I could keep you company for a while, maybe show you some of the less military-focused aspects of the Inquisition so you can give Comte Marchand a full picture of what we do here.”

Aceline looked for a brief moment as though she liked this idea even less than being asked to entertain herself for the day. However, she recovered almost immediately, painting an expression of polite interest on her face.

“Oh,” she replied, giving her best attempt at a smile, which came off as more of a grimace. “How gracious of you.”

“Mariel, I thought maybe you could lend a hand with Mother Giselle today if that’s agreeable to everyone,” suggested Freya. The elf looked up at her with wide eyes, surprised as always to be considered and addressed by name. “She'll be overseeing a project for our charitable initiative with some of our staff, sorting through some clothing and other items for Ferelden’s alienages. I thought maybe you could be of help, as you'd know what might be most useful to them. I believe Brother Marceau will also be assisting, so you’ll have a familiar face there.”

The items in question were the remaining belongings of Clan Lavellan, which were finally being made ready to head to new homes now that the passages through the mountains had been cleared. Freya privately hoped that one of her staff would strike up a conversation with Mariel and that the elf could get a taste of what it was like to work with the Inquisition. She turned to Aceline.

“Would that be all right with you, Lady Marchand?”

Aceline looked as though she wasn’t particularly keen on having her servant directed by someone else, but she nodded nonetheless.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she said, turning to Mariel as she added, “See that you are obedient and that you keep yourself busy. I wouldn’t like the Inquisition to get the impression that indolence is a trait we abide in our handmaids in Orlais.”

Freya willed herself not to roll her eyes as she used her remaining toast to mop up the last of her egg yolk. “Excellent,” she said, giving Mariel an encouraging smile. “I think you’ll enjoy it, _ara’ni_. It'll certainly be far more interesting than following us around all day.”

“A servant’s job is to _serve,_ not to be _entertained,”_ Aceline said, looking haughty. “Mind you remember that.”

Freya wasn’t certain whether she was addressing this commentary to her or to Mariel, but she ignored it regardless and brushed her hands together, toast crumbs falling to her plate. She dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and drained the rest of her morning coffee, then looked up at Aceline with the same sunny expression she’d had fixed on her face throughout the meal.

“Well,” she said. “Shall we, then, if you’ve eaten your fill?”

 

As they crossed the main hall, Aceline’s heels clicking against the stone behind her, Freya stifled a yawn and wondered to herself how Cullen was faring upstairs in their chambers. She hoped he was getting some sleep.

At the door to the grounds, a member of the Inquisition staff approached them, Freya's traveling cloak and a pair of brown leather boots in his hands.

“As I'm told you requested, Your Worship?” said the young man with a slight bow. She grinned and accepted them, thanking him and turning to Aceline as Mariel hurried up to them, panting, with Lady Marchand’s cloak and an ermine fur muff in hand.

“You made it up to the guest quarters and back very quickly,” she told the other elf with a smile. “Well done, I think that might be a record. Lady Marchand, we’ll be spending some time walking the grounds today, and I hear your shoes have been a bit problematic with the soil being so soft. These should be about your size, I think.” She handed the footwear to Aceline, whose expression suggested she was being given a basket of live adders rather than a pair of ordinary boots. “Go on, you don’t want to get your beautiful silk shoes all caked with mud again.”

It seemed Lady Marchand wasn’t going to go so far as to directly refuse the Inquisitor's request, at least not this time. Freya managed to contain her amusement as she watched Mariel help her into them, Aceline holding up her layers of skirts so the laces could be tied properly. Then she begrudgingly smoothed her skirts and fastened the woolen cloak around her shoulders, gesturing out the open door once she was dressed for the weather.

“Lead the way.”


	17. Sul'ana Sul'anasha

The din of pounding hammers and swishing of blades sawing against wood reached their ears as Freya and Aceline made their way to a flat expanse of rock at the rear of the keep, just outside the castle walls. Dozens of people—elves and humans, mostly men, with the odd dwarf or Qunari sprinkled in—were hard at work on three large structures, one just a little bit further along than the others. Freya headed toward a long table set up on the ground in front of the half-constructed buildings, behind which a couple of staff members were setting up mugs next to an enormous stockpot with steam creeping out in tendrils from the edges of its steel lid. They were being directed by a young blonde man, who seemed to be in charge.

“Hello, Eustace,” said Freya, her greeting as warm as the smile she was giving him. “I see we’ve come in time to help with the morning cocoa break.”

The young man turned, recognized the Inquisitor, and gave a small bow along with a friendly expression to mirror her own.

“Good morning, Inquisitor,” he said, walking forward. He looked to Aceline and gave her a bow, as well. “Lady Marchand, I presume. Very pleased to make your acquaintance. I hope you are enjoying your stay here at the castle.”

“This is Sir Morris, Skyhold’s Quartermaster,” Freya explained.

Aceline was watching the building construction with some curiosity as the Inquisitor continued to lead her toward the long table.

“Charmed,” she said to Eustace in a clipped tone, then turned to Freya. “What exactly is it we are looking at?”

“Construction on expanded living quarters for staff and refugees,” replied Freya, gesturing toward the workers. “Sir Morris has been overseeing this project for several months, with some help from Gatsi, our dwarven stonemason. Would you like to tell Lady Marchand more about it, Eustace?”

“With pleasure, Your Grace,” he said with a smile. “Skyhold was never built for an operation of this size, m’lady, so we’ve had to make some alterations to the castle to ensure we can still employ and care for everyone. We started to outgrow the servant’s quarters in the keep last fall, to the point that folks were sleeping six or even eight to a room that was only meant to house three to four beds. So before the frosts, we leveled some of the ground out here behind the castle and laid the foundations for the buildings. Now that the snows have slowed down, we can resume some of the construction. It’s still colder and wetter than we’d like for a project like this, but with more people coming to Skyhold every month, we can hardly afford to wait for springtime.”

He pointed to the first building.

“That largest structure will house the single men, which make up the majority of the staff. Each room will sleep four men, housed in bunk beds. There will also be several communal lavatories, and each floor will have its own bathing facilities. The middle building will be for the women, with similar sleeping and bathing arrangements. And the third building will house families. Each family will have a room to themselves, with assignments based on family size, so folks with more children will be granted larger roo—”

“ _Excusez-moi_ , but did you say children?” interrupted Aceline, looking surprised. “There are _children_ here, living in a war fortress?”

“Of course,” said Freya, who was now lifting the lid of the large pot and stirring its contents with a ladle, releasing a cloud of cocoa-scented steam into the air. “Haven’t you noticed them around the keep? There was a group of them playing in the courtyard as we passed by. Lots of the refugees have got families, and a few of our staff as well.”

There was a loud whistle from one of the foremen on the ground, who gestured at the table and shouted something at the workers, all of whom set down their various tools and began making their way to the table to form a queue.

Freya ladled cocoa into a mug and passed it to Aceline, who took it automatically but then gave it a strange look, as though she wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

“I’ll fill, you distribute,” said Freya as the first worker approached, a heavily tattooed dwarf with a thick brunette beard that sprinkled bits of sawdust on his coat as he smiled at Lady Marchand, who handed him the cup, still with the slightly bewildered expression on her face. Freya returned his grin. "Here you are, Rolin. Enjoy, and stay warm."

“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” said the dwarf, nodding and raising the cup before walking away.

A middle-aged human man with salt-and-pepper hair and a kind face approached next, and Freya’s face split into a broad smile.

“Hello, Grady,” she said, ladling another mug of cocoa. “How is your family? Is little Sarah over her croup?”

“Oh, they’re very well, Your Worship,” he said, smiling back, and accepting the cup from Aceline with a grateful expression. “Sarah is right as rain, that potion you gave us stopped her coughing straightaway and let us all get some rest. We’re keeping her out of the cold like you said, and I can tell you, she was in a _towering_ temper about not being able to go out and build snowmen with the others, but as soon as we said it was on the Lady Inquisitor’s orders, she stopped her scowling.”

Freya laughed.

“Well, I’m glad to hear I have a positive influence on _someone_ in this castle,” she said. “Please give my best to Marjorie, and tell her that saddle blanket she knitted for Flapjack has been keeping him nice and cozy in the stables.”

Grady took the cup from Aceline, thanking her politely and moving off to one side to sip at the hot chocolate. As the line moved through, Aceline’s expression of surprise got more and more pronounced as Freya seemed to know the names and stories of several of the workers, and made it a point to introduce herself to those she didn’t and ask them a bit about themselves.

When the last worker in line had finally been served, Freya filled cups for Eustace and the foremen, all of whom chatted easily with her about the project, as well as aspects of their personal lives.

“When are you going to ask that soldier you’ve been after to go for a drink, Sawyer?” Freya asked a foreman with a muscular frame, fiery orange hair, and rosy cheeks that flushed even deeper at her question. “Shall I have Cullen put in a word for you?”

She realized a fraction of a second too late that she had been far too informal in addressing the Commander by name, and she could feel Aceline stiffen next to her, but she went on as if nothing had happened.

"Ah, Ser Alwyn prob’ly doesn’t even know my name, ma’am,” said Sawyer bashfully in his thick Hinterland accent. “Doubt a man with his status would have much interest in an ol’ farmhand like me.”

“He would if he heard you sing,” Freya pressed, pointing the ladle at him. “I’ve heard you leading the men while you work. A set of pipes like that would impress anyone.”

Sawyer waved his hand, grinning.

“You’re too kind, ma’am.”

Freya made to start gathering the dirty cups that had been collecting at the end of the table as the workers finished their breaks, but Eustace waved his hands.

“No, no, Inquisitor,” he insisted, taking mugs from her and setting them back down. “You have far more imporant things to attend to than dirty dishes. You let us clear up this mess. You’ve already been a great help, not to mention a bit of warmth and sunshine for these folks on a cold morning.”

Freya tried to protest, but eventually she allowed herself and Lady Marchand to be shooed away back toward the keep. Aceline was quiet for a moment as they headed back, but eventually spoke up as they neared the castle walls.

“Do you do that often?” she asked. “Serving your workers hot drinks, I mean?”

“As often as I can find time to,” replied Freya. “Which is less than I’d like, to be honest.”

“Don’t you find that it diminishes you in their eyes, to see you being subservient like that?”

“On the contrary, Lady Marchand. They see me as I see myself—just an ordinary person whose circumstances led them to an extraordinary position. I take a little time when I’m here at the keep to fill some cups with cocoa and get to know them, and it lets my staff see me as a caring individual whose fate is intertwined with theirs. It lets them know none of them are too small in the eyes of the Inquisitor. It makes them want to work that much harder, and the important work we do here depends on them as much as it does on me. Moreso, actually, in many ways.”

“But that was half an hour of idleness we encouraged, when they could have spent it doing that _important work_ you speak of.”

“They’re not golems,” Freya said, giving Aceline an incredulous look. “They need to be allowed to catch their breath, share a laugh, and nourish themselves. A healthy worker with a well-rested body, a full belly, and a smile on his face will always be more efficient and dedicated than one who is exhausted, underfed, and mistreated."

They entered the courtyard again, and the Inquisitor steered them toward a wooden door in a low building at one corner of the keep, not far from the training grounds.

“Are you squeamish?” she asked, turning toward Lady Marchand. “About blood and such?”

Lady Marchand looked taken aback. “Why do you ask?”

“We’re about to enter the infirmary,” explained Freya. “I’d like to check on a patient. But he has rather a severe injury, and the sight of it can be rather unpleasant to people who aren't accustomed to seeing such things.”

“Is it necessary to do so now?” she asked, looking very much as though she’d rather not.

“We’re right here. It won’t take but a moment. And I’d like to grab something from the infirmary stock, anyway.”

“Very well,” mumbled Lady Marchand. She eyed the door with trepidation.

Freya knocked softly and announced herself, and she was quickly answered by a woman’s voice calling for them to come in. She opened the door into the dim room, entering and allowing her eyes to adjust to the low light before closing it again behind Lady Marchand.

The air was thick with the sharp metallic scent of blood and the slightly sweet smell of decaying flesh. A row of six cots occupied one wall of the infirmary, with two of the beds full. A human woman in the bed in the far corner of the room coughed violently, moving her messy, slept-in silver plait off her shoulder and spitting phlegm into a little metal pan she held in her hands. A younger human woman with short strawberry blonde hair offered her a cup full of some sort of liquid, which she accepted and drank with a look of resigned disgust.

The bed nearest the door on the opposite end of the row was occupied by an elven man with blankets pulled up to his chest. His skin was the color of earth and he had close-cropped, very curly black hair. Aceline noticed that there were no markings on his face. This was a city elf.

He seemed to have been asleep, but the momentary flood of light from outside had roused him, and he blinked his eyes open slowly. As they focused on Freya, his expression brightened and his lips parted in a smile.

“Hello, Soren,” said Freya, approaching his bed. “How are you today? How’s your pain?”

“About the same as before, Your Grace,” he said, wincing a bit as he propped himself up on one elbow. “But Miss Clara says the wound is looking better.”

The young woman tending to the coughing patient helped smooth her sheets and then crossed over to Soren’s bed.

“It’s true, ma’am,” the surgeon said to Freya, nodding. “Whatever is in that ointment you provided is working a treat. The tissue has finally stopped sloughing off. We might not have to take the leg after all.”

Freya snuck half a glance at Aceline, who was leaning back against the closed door with a gloved hand over her mouth and nose.

“Would it be all right if I gave it a look, Soren?” asked Freya, kneeling next to his bed. He nodded, but gave an uncertain look toward Lady Marchand.

“Only if it won’t bother m’lady,” he said. “It’s pretty gruesome and all.”

“If Lady Marchand doesn’t wish to help, she’s welcome to step out,” Freya said, walking to a shelf full of supplies and pulling down a roll of cloth bandage and a large pot full of some kind of thick, golden-yellow paste.

Aceline looked very much like she’d rather leave, but she stepped forward nonetheless and accepted the roll of cloth from Freya and a pair of shears.

“Could I have four strips about yea long?” Freya asked her, holding her hands several inches apart. Aceline nodded and began to try to clip off strips of the cloth as Freya peeled back Soren’s sheets.

“I could always assist,” offered Clara, looking uncertainly at Aceline, who was fumbling a bit trying to manage with her fur muff tucked under one elbow.

“You have enough to do already,” Freya told her. “Regina’s cough still sounds quite nasty. Perhaps another round of percussion on her back to help break up the congestion in her lungs?”

“As you say, Your Grace,” the surgeon replied with a small bow. She crossed back to the other bed and helped the woman sit up, then began gently thumping against her back with cupped hands.

Soren’s bandage was soaked through with a clear, yellowish fluid, and Freya carefully pulled it away, apologizing in a soft voice as it stuck here and there, causing him to flinch. When she had finally removed it, Aceline could see the full extent of his injury.

A huge chunk of the man’s thigh was gone, and an inch or so of ivory bone was visible underneath the ragged red edges of his muscle, a little of which was blackened with rot. Freya gently prodded at the wound, examining the tissues.

Lady Marchand made a small, almost imperceptible retching noise behind her, which Freya ignored. Aceline knew where the door was if she needed it.

“It’s healing,” Freya said, sounding pleased. “All this bright red you can see here is healthy new tissue. You’ll have a very visible scar, of course, and I doubt the gouge in your leg will ever fill in. But I’m glad we didn’t rush to amputate. I’m going to put more of this ointment on and then we’ll re-bandage you. Let me know if anything starts to hurt too much and we can take a break, if we need to.”

Freya began to spread the yellow paste over the wound, taking care to be gentle and making small talk with Soren as she did, seeing whether he’d been getting enough to eat and asking about his family back home in Denerim.

“My mum couldn’t believe the Inquisitor herself was visiting me,” Soren told her with a grin. “ _‘Not just visiting, mum, she’s the reason I still have my leg!’_ I told her. Bet she nearly fainted when she read that. Who would’ve thought the Herald herself would care about a flat-ear like me?”

“Don’t call yourself that, _isa’var’lin_ ,” Freya chided him gently. “All elves are kin.”

“Now she’ll _really_ faint.”

Freya chuckled as she took the strips of cloth from Aceline, who looked rather green but was holding up admirably. Laying them over the wound, the Inquisitor carefully covered the ointment and then began wrapping the long roll of bandage material around Soren's leg to secure it. Once the dressing was finished, she put the sheet back in its place and crossed to the wash basin to scrub her hands clean.

“Clara, be sure to let me know right away if there’s any change, or if you need me to make up more supplies,” she said, wiping her fingers dry on a clean towel. Aceline saw her pocket a couple of small vials from the shelf and then turn to leave. “Regina, take care not to exert yourself more than necessary, and be sure you drink lots of that tea. And Soren, please tell your _mamae_ I would be ever so pleased to break bread with her the next time I’m in the city. I would consider it an honor to meet the woman who raised such a brave man as yourself.”

Soren’s expression turned bashful and Aceline suspected he was blushing, though it was hard to see in the low light.

“I’m certain she would say the honor would be hers, ma’am,” he replied, laying back on his pillow with a crooked grin.

Freya bid everyone farewell and then she and Aceline took their leave, blinking against the bright light of the courtyard as they exited the little building. They walked in silence for a moment as Aceline breathed the fresh air, color returning to her face. Freya steered them toward the gardens.

“How is it you know so much about healing?” Aceline finally asked, furrowing her brow.

“That was my job, before the Conclave. My _mamae_ was the Clan Healer, and I was finishing up my training so I could take her place.”

“But why not let a mage heal his wounds? Would that not be faster?”

“That injury was caused by a demon,” Freya said, prompting a look of shock from Aceline. “A rift opened near our camp in Dirthavaren and—”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m afraid I don’t know that name.”

“You know it as the Exalted Plains. Dirthavaren is the elvhen word for the area. Anyway, as I said, a rift opened near our camp and demons attacked our men. Soren was stationed there, on his way to help build a bridge at Pont Agur. He nearly died in the fight, but Solas was able to stabilize him until we could get him back to Skyhold. Magic wouldn’t work to cure him, though. We tried everything. Clara wanted to take his leg when she saw how the wound had begun to fester, but I looked up one of my mamae’s old recipes and we decided to give it a try. Fortunately for Soren, it worked.”

“Will he be able to walk again?”

“I think so,” answered Freya, nodding. “Though probably always with a limp. I suspect his building days are over.”

“Will you send him back to Denerim?”

“If he wants to go home, yes. We’ll send him along and make sure he and his family are cared for. Most of his salary was being sent to his mother to help her care for his younger brothers and sisters. Of course, he’ll also be welcome to stay here at Skyhold, if he wishes. I know he has friends here and has offered to remain and be useful if he can.”

“But you’ll continue to pay him? Even if he can’t work and has to return home?” Aceline looked thoroughly bemused.

“Of course,” Freya replied. “It’s the least we can do. He’s suffered for weeks with an incredibly painful injury and he still has a long way to go to full recovery. He was willing to give his life for the cause. He almost _did_ give his life. And not just for the Inquisition, either. For _you_ , Lady Marchand. I think that’s something people lose sight of. These people aren’t just here for me. They’re lining up to volunteer because they want to help us close the Breach, something that affects everyone, from the nobles in their mansions to the city elves in the streets. These people are here to serve all of Thedas.”

She paused at the entrance to the garden, then reached into her pocket.

“I’ll have to take my leave now. I have some things to attend to after lunch, so I’m afraid you’ll be on your own for the remainder of the day. But I do know Mother Giselle could use some help with the sorting project, if you’re willing.” She handed Lady Marchand a small vial of a silvery potion. “This is for you. It should help with that burn on your temple. Curling wand, I assume?”

Aceline’s fingers reached up to tug at that strand of hair again, but she accepted the offering with the other hand.

“Yes,” she said, avoiding Freya’s eye. “I sneezed while Mariel was working on my hair yesterday, and the tongs scorched my skin.”

Freya passed her a second little bottle, this time full of deep green and rather viscous liquid.

“This one is for her,” she said. “I hope that this morning has been a good example of the very strict expectations I have for how staff are treated here at Skyhold. I want to be clear that this expectation extends to our _guests_ , as well. And I also want to be clear that Mariel has told me nothing herself. But very little happens inside this keep without me finding out. Please bear that in mind.”

The Inquisitor took her leave without another word, leaving Aceline standing there holding the little glass vials. She glanced down at the one she’d been given for Mariel. A little label on the front bore a simple inscription in the Inquisitor's hand:

 _Feladara + Felanaste Ointment  
_ _(For bruises)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Sul'ana Sul'anasha_ \- "To serve the servant"


	18. Blessings from the Herald

Cullen rolled over in bed, pried out of his light sleep by the creak of the door, followed by the quiet tapping of Freya’s boots against the stone steps as she climbed. He rubbed his eyes as she came into focus, carrying a tray of food.

She set it down on the bedside table and sat next to him, the late morning light glittering through the stained glass windows and casting a green-tinged glow wherever it touched her skin. Reaching toward him, she smoothed his sleep-tousled curls away from his face.

“How are you feeling, _ma’nehn?”_ she asked as he wrapped gentle fingers around her wrist. The rough caress of his calloused hand felt warm against her flesh.

“Better,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling up into a small smile. “Much better.”

He sat up, the sheet falling to his waist as he placed a palm on his stomach, which issued a loud and prolonged growl.

“Was that you, or are you hiding an angry varghest under the sheet?” she asked with a smirk.

“Let’s just say it’s a good thing you brought lunch,” Cullen told her, eyeing the tray hungrily.

“It’s just ham sandwiches today, I’m afraid,” she replied, passing him one on a plate. “I think Donatien is trying to use up the rest of the meat from the feast before it goes bad. I made yours just how you like it. Cheddar and lots of mustard, with a big slice of tomato.”

“You are truly Andraste’s gift, Herald,” he told her, eager hands picking up the sandwich and breathing in the smoky, savory smell of the ham and the bright vinegared tang of mustard.

Freya narrowed her eyes at this remark and brandished the knife she was using to cut up an orange for him. “You’d better watch it, don’t think I won’t take this all back downstairs and give it to Flapjack.”

Cullen chuckled as he took a large bite, holding his plate so he wouldn’t drop crumbs all over the bedspread. When he’d finally managed to swallow his mouthful of sandwich, he accepted the cup full of water Freya handed him, took a long drink, and then asked, “How did things go with Lady Marchand?”

“Better than I’d imagined, actually,” she said, resuming her work on the fruit. “I went through with the plan we came up with, and by the end of it, she seemed like maybe she was actually absorbing some of what she’d seen and heard. I have no idea if it will make a difference in the long term, but I feel fairly confident that Mariel will at least be safe while she’s here.”

“Any word from the others about our suspicions?”

“Nothing yet,” Freya said. “Bull has been keeping an eye on Briala from a distance and he doesn’t seem to think she’s acting at all dubious. But then, it’s sort of exactly in her job description to do dubious things without giving herself away.”

“What about Jean Paul?” Cullen’s brow furrowed as he took another bite of the sandwich.

“One of Leliana’s people has been posing as Josephine’s assistant so she can observe their interactions. Nothing of note so far.” She set down the knife. “And honestly, as far as Lady Marchand goes, I don’t know that she has it in her to be part of a coup. At least, not knowingly. She’s about as subtle as dwarven ale, and while I don’t want to make any assumptions that she’s lacking in the brains department, she certainly doesn’t seem to be very well-studied on her targets. If she’s playing The Game, she’s not doing a very good job.”

“That is one thing that surprised me,” said Cullen thoughtfully, chewing. “If she’d bothered to do any research at all, she’d know you and I were an item. And she’d know that her approach, if you can call it that, wouldn’t be likely to work on me.”

“That’s just it—I don’t think she _did_ do any research. I think someone like her is so used to just being handed everything she wants that she assumed she could waltz into Skyhold and let her good looks and status do all the work of wooing you. But I don’t for a second think that she doesn’t know about us, no matter how much Josephine has tried to tamper our relationship this week.”

“Well,” he replied, raising his eyebrows. “That makes it even _more_ brazen."

Freya gave a humorless laugh at this.

“She wouldn’t see it that way,” she said, shaking her head. “She’s a wealthy human from a well-respected Orlesian family. She’s Andrastian. She has the figure of a desire demon and the kind of social status that most in her country will only ever dream of. Next to her, who am I—a lowly rabbit and a heretic to boot—who am _I_ to deserve all of _this?_ Taking you away must seem like a drop in the ocean when you take into account everything I’ve been handed. Wealth, power, influence. All just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Not to mention having my own tavern named after me, where my drinks are always on the house.”

“But you’ve sacrificed so much,” Cullen replied, skipping over Freya’s joke. “Can’t she see that? Your whole way of life has been turned upside down. You come back with new scars every time you leave the keep. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You lost your whole _clan_ to this war.”

Freya waved a hand at this.

“Most Orlesians would shank their own mothers for a better seat at the theater,” she said. “Whatever sacrifices I’ve made, they must seem small to her, in comparison to what I have in return. Doubtless, she thinks that giving you up would be a mere inconvenience, given how many suitors have been lining up for a chance since I arrived at Haven.”

“Am I that replaceable? Damn.” He feigned a hurt look.

“Maybe in _her_ eyes,” said Freya with a smile. “But certainly not to me.”

She reached out with a thumb and wiped a blob of mustard off his lower lip, offering it to him. He cleaned it off with gentle lips and then accepted the slice of orange she offered him before she stood, crossing to the wardrobe to lay out a set of clean clothes for him while he continued to eat.

“Aren’t you having any lunch?” he asked.

“I ate before I came up,” she explained, setting the clothing on the little sofa by the stairs. “I wanted to let you sleep as long as I could.”

“Does that mean this other sandwich is for me?”

“It does.”

“Another blessing from the Herald!” he exclaimed, grabbing it and lifting it above his head. “I am truly favored.” Freya shot him another withering look as he bit into it, his voice thick and muffled around the mouthful as he quickly followed with, “Just a joke! Remember how irreplaceable I am, you said it yourself!”

She laughed at this, rolling her eyes.

“You’re just lucky you’re so handsome, Commander.”


	19. Transfigurations

For the next two days, things were relatively quiet at Skyhold. Everyone went about their duties more or less as usual—though often in the company of the Orlesian dignitaries, which meant adjustments naturally had to be made.

Much to everyone’s surprise, Lady Marchand had managed to keep herself occupied all on her own, and Freya had the opportunity to find out where she was spending most of her time during a brief conversation with Brother Marceau. Following her morning with Freya, Aceline had somewhat sheepishly approached Mother Giselle and asked if another pair of hands would be helpful in sorting and packing Clan Lavellan’s remaining belongings for donation. Her offer was gratefully accepted.

She’d been put to work sorting tools at first, but it was quickly revealed that she barely knew a hammer from a handsaw, and so she’d been moved to sorting clothing along with Mariel and a few other staff members, which she seemed quite a bit more comfortable with. She worked quietly, speaking when necessary to ask questions or facilitate the job, but otherwise remaining mostly silent and, by all accounts, being a very helpful addition to the work party.

When Aceline did finally approach Cullen again after lunch on the fifth day, her demeanor was altogether different from when she had arrived.

 _“Excusez moi, Commandant!”_ she called out.

Cullen turned to see her walking briskly toward him across the main hall. As she approached, he felt something seemed off about her, somehow, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on what.

“Lady Marchand,” he said, giving her a curt nod. “How can I be of service?”

“I wonder if I might ask for a little of your time this afternoon? I’ve been wishing to speak to you.”

“Certainly,” he replied, wondering what this could possibly be about. “Would you like to come to my office?”

He gestured toward the door that led to the rotunda. As the two made their way out to the battlements and across to his tower, Cullen had a revelation. There was no click-clack of pointed heels against the stone this afternoon. Suddenly he realized what had seemed different about her. She was a good inch shorter than usual today. He turned to face her.

“Lady Marchand, have you changed footwear, by chance?”

She gave him a small smile, free from its usual smug undertone. It quite suited her pretty features.

“Your Inquisitor loaned me some boots when she took me around the castle, and I found them to be quite a bit more practical for being on my feet so much. To be honest, my feet were killing me after the first day. _Il faut souffrir pour être belle,_ as we say in Orlais. ‘Beauty is pain.’”

He grinned back, opening the door for her.

“I’m glad to see you’ve finally prioritized your comfort. What is it you wanted to speak about?”

He hastily moved a stack of reports off the cushion of the armchair, which in its interim of disuse had resumed its normal function as the office catch-all. Lady Marchand nodded her thanks and sat, crossing her ankles underneath her skirts and taking a deep breath.

“I’m afraid I owe you an apology.”

“An apology?” he repeated, eyebrows arched upward, leaning against his desk and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yes,” she said, glancing down at her hands in her lap as she nervously picked at a bit of embroidery in her dress. “I have behaved most unkindly toward you. And toward the Inquisitor. I was disrespectful of you both, and of your… _relationship.”_

“So you did know.”

Aceline let out a small huff of laughter at this.

“But of course. Everyone in Thedas knows. Speculations about you and the Inquisitor have been the topic of choice in Orlais ever since the Empress’s party. Those of us who were turned down for dances with you took notice of what transpired on the balcony that night.”

“If you knew,” Cullen said, frowning, “why bother coming at all?”

“Well,” she replied, cocking her head to one side, “my father truly did wish to send someone to the keep to see where the Marchand gold was being put to use. He could have sent one of his men, of course, but my mother encouraged me to come instead. She thinks we would be well-matched, you see. But I can tell that is not the case.”

“Oh?”

Aceline gave him another smile, this one sadder. Remorseful.

“I am not a good person, _Commandant,”_ she said. “I’m selfish and arrogant, and a bully. I am aware of these things. _Keenly_ aware. I have very few friends, none of whom weren’t purchased, in a way, through access to my luxurious lifestyle and increased social status by association. I have never had to want anything before. If I couldn’t buy something I desired, I simply made enough of a fuss that it was given to me anyway. I thought perhaps the same could be true for the handsome officer I saw at the ball. Now I see that was foolish. You already have someone kind and generous, with a good heart and a sharp mind. I imagine you were asked not to be overly demonstrative of your relationship this week, but I have seen enough of your interactions to know that your love is already spoken for. She makes you laugh. You’re… _softer,_ somehow, when you’re around her.”

Cullen felt as though Corypheus himself could have burst through the door in a flour-dusted apron to offer him a tray of fresh-baked cookies and he’d have been less surprised than he was just now. He rubbed the back of his neck, clearing his throat.

“Well, Lady Marchand… I confess that I don’t really know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” she said, giving him a small shrug. “Just know that from here on out, you can expect our interactions to be purely professional. I came here to do a job, and I intend to do it, and thoroughly. I wonder if you might be willing to give me another tour, on the grounds this time? I would like you to walk me through all the areas of the keep that could use improvements, as well as making a list of items still needed here at Skyhold. I saw the new housing for the staff, I assume they will need furnishings. I will take the list back to my father and we will see what we can provide.”

“I… well, that’s very generous of you, Lady Marchand.”

“There is one other thing,” she said, standing and adjusting her skirts.

“What’s that?”

“There is a builder in your infirmary, an elf by the name of Soren. He was gravely injured while on duty in Orlais.”

“Yes, I know him,” Cullen said, nodding. “Freya has taken over his care since she’s been back home. What of him?”

“I would like to personally sponsor his recovery, from my own coffers. He was hurt helping my country, the least I can do is ensure his care is paid for. I will cover any costs incurred through the length of his treatment, as well as setting up a fund for his living expenses once he is recovered. That way if he is unable to work again, he won’t have to worry about how his family will eat.”

There was a brief pause.

“If you do not close your mouth, _Commandant,_ you are likely to catch a fly.”

“I apologize, Lady Marchand,” he replied, shaking his head. “It’s just… this was not at all what I expected when you said you wished to speak. The Inquisition is grateful for your support, of course. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she said, giving another shrug. “Thank your Inquisitor. I get the impression she has a knack for this, making people want to be better.”

“That she most certainly does,” he replied. His smile faded a bit as he added, “I’m afraid I do have to ask a somewhat indelicate question, however… What of Mariel?”

“Ah,” said Aceline, turning her eyes away from him, her cheeks reddening. “Yes, of course, she would have told you. The way I felt when she confronted me… I do not know how to put that kind of shame into words. Regrettably, I cannot undo the damage I have done, but I can assure you that I will never raise another hand to a servant, and I will be making some changes back at the estate, as well.”

She turned her eyes back up to him.

“I must say this seems a very abrupt change of heart on a great many things,” Cullen told her.

“I’ve been helping your workers sort through items to send to the alienages. I listened to Mariel talk about life growing up in Val Royeaux. I am told it is a filthy place, that alienage, the gutters used like toilets and the buildings barely more than shacks, whole families sharing a single bedroom in a crowded hovel. And yet she described her childhood with such _love_. I am certain she would not describe the Marchand estate the same way.” She took another deep breath. “I always felt like we gave our servants such a gift, but it was not that. We took them away from their families, trapped them in a life of pain and humiliation, and expected them to be grateful for it because we gave them a scratchy straw mattress to sleep on and a few pennies a week. When I gave her the ointment from the Inquisitor, she thanked me. _Thanked_ me. I _gave_ her some of those bruises. It was like watching a kicked puppy lick its cruel master’s hand. I felt like I was going to be sick.”

She stopped talking, looking away and wiping at her eye with one hand. Cullen took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She accepted it, sniffling.

“You are a religious man, are you not?” she asked.

“To an extent, yes,” he replied. “Though I would be lying if I said this war hadn’t shaken my faith a great deal.”

“But you know what is written in the Chant? In the Canticle of Transfigurations? _All men are the work of our Maker’s hands.”_

Cullen continued the verse, nodding.

_“From the lowest slaves to the highest kings.”_

_“Those who bring harm without provocation to the least of His children are hated and accursed by the Maker.”_ She paused, shaking her head. “I’m just so truly sorry, _Commandant._ For everything.”  
  
There was another pause, this one longer and punctuated by more of Aceline's sniffles.

“I have said and done a great many things in my life that I regret, Lady Marchand,” he said gently. “But if there is one thing I have learned in working for the Inquisition, it’s that _anyone_ can change. You have to want it for the right reasons, of course—not for the sake of your reputation, or to assuage your own guilt, but purely for the purpose of making the world safer and kinder for those around us. Strive for that, and you won’t erase the past, but you _can_ atone for it. That’s another thing you’ll come to learn about Freya—she’s very big on second chances.”

Aceline wiped her eyes one last time, and then handed back the handkerchief, which Cullen tucked back into his pocket before offering her his arm.

“Now, let’s take that walk,” he told her. “Might as well get started on making things better, eh?”

 

_________________________

 

  
“Well, you were right, Lady Marchand doesn’t appear to be part of any coup.”

Cullen hadn’t been able to catch Freya up on their conversation until after dinner when everyone had retired for the evening, the Inquisitor having been occupied for most of the afternoon between meetings and training.

She was standing next to the bed now, unwinding her braid for the night. He launched into the story of his morning, detailing Aceline’s apology and the subsequent tour of the grounds, in which she took meticulous notes about all of the areas that needed additional improvement. About thirty seconds in, Freya found herself needing to sit down, and by the end, her mouth was hanging open easily as wide as Cullen’s had back in his tower.

“Cullen, are you having me on?” she asked finally, narrowing her eyes.

“I swear, I’m not,” he insisted, making a crisscross motion over his own heart.

She shook her head, leaning over to begin unlacing her boots.

“Nothing should surprise me at this point in my life, but never in a million ages would I have thought she’d come around that far or that fast.”

“Never underestimate the power of a little shame and hard work,” he said with a smirk. He sat down next to her, giving his shoulders a small shrug. “I don’t know, maybe Barris and I were off the mark. Maybe there _is_ no coup.”

“Well,” Freya told him, tossing her boots a few feet away and lifting one slender leg to tuck her ankle underneath the opposite thigh. “I didn’t want to say so, but I always did think it seemed maybe a little far-fetched.”

“I suppose you’re probably right. _Again.”_

“There, there,” Freya said, patting his leg sympathetically. “You’ll get used to it eventually.”

He rolled his eyes.

“You know, I _was_ going to make fervent but affectionate love to you tonight, but _now_ …”

Freya tipped her head back and laughed at this, placing a hand on her chest.

“Oh, my _apologies_ Commander. Is there anything I can do to change your mind?”

She gave him an impish smile as she reached down to grab the hem of her tunic and then pulled it over her head in one smooth motion. Cullen eyed her freckled collarbones and let his gaze trail down to her breastband.

“After careful consideration,” he told her with a tone of mock sincerity, “all is forgiven.”

“Such benevolence,” she said, tossing the garment at his face and laying back on the bed. “Come and get it, soldier.”

He chucked the tunic behind him onto the floor and leaned forward with a grin, eagerly pressing his lips to hers.

 

_________________________  
 

 

At first, Cullen didn’t hear the soft but insistent tapping on their chamber door, the last log in the fireplace still snapping and crackling away to embers, masking the sound. But as it grew louder, there could be no mistaking that someone downstairs wanted their attention, and they wanted it quickly.

He blinked his eyes open, looking outside. It was still dark. Glancing at the clock on the wall of the chamber, he saw that it was still early in the morning, about a quarter past five. He rolled out of bed, Freya turning over and mumbling in her sleep as she felt him move. Pulling on his leggings, he hastily padded down the steps and cracked the door.

“Josephine?” he asked, stifling a yawn. “What’s the matter?”

The Ambassador stood outside the door, already fully dressed and with a serious expression on her face.

“I am terribly sorry to wake you and the Inquisitor so early," she told him in a low tone, "but I am afraid it is a matter of some urgency. Please clothe yourselves and meet us in the war room as soon as you can.”

Five minutes later, dressed but looking quite disheveled, Freya and Cullen entered to find Leliana and Josephine waiting for them by the war table, talking quietly together. They straightened as the door shut, their expressions solemn and concerned.

“What is it?” Freya asked, brows furrowed with worry. “Has someone been hurt?”

“Nothing like that,” Leliana assured her. “At least, not yet.”

“Not _yet?”_

“You know Leliana has had her agents stationed covertly around the castle at all hours to keep an eye on our foreign guests,” Josephine said.

“Yes,” Cullen said. “Why, did they find something?”

Leliana nodded.

“I was notified about an hour ago that Ambassador Lefebvre was seen out of bed this morning, sometime shortly after three o’ clock.”

“I’m going to guess by your tone that he wasn’t just sneaking a late night snack?” Freya asked.

“He snuck out of the castle, through a side door, with something under his arm. My agent followed and observed him walking to the courtyard. The something under his arm was a bird cage. He was sending a raven.”

“Not one of ours, surely?” asked Freya, looking confused. “The rookery is locked at night.”

“Lady Briala traveled with two ravens from her own flock,” Leliana explained. “It is not unheard of for a spymaster to do so. I brought along one of mine to the Winter Palace, as you may recall.”

“So whatever he’s sending, he didn’t want to borrow one of Skyhold’s birds,” Cullen said, pursing his lips. “And he didn’t want to be seen.”

“And if he’s using Lady Briala’s raven—” began Leliana.

“She’s in on whatever this is,” Freya finished for her.

“Well,” Cullen said, looking toward the Inquisitor. “Perhaps I wasn’t quite so off the mark, after all.”

“So what’s our play?” Freya asked, crossing her arms. “Do we wait for them to make their move, or do we confront them?”

Josephine and Leliana exchanged looks.

“I think we wait a bit longer,” Leliana said. “The farewell dinner is tomorrow. Let’s see if they decide to put anything into motion before then. If not, then I say we let slip that we are aware that they are up to something, and see what their reaction is.”

“I agree,” Josephine added. “Avoiding bloodshed is, of course, the most desirable outcome. There may still be room for negotiations. Let us see what their angle is before we burn any bridges.”

Freya nodded, but it was clear by her expression that she wanted nothing more at that moment than to be the one to strike a match.


	20. Tuast'enal

Freya found it very hard to act as though nothing had changed the next day.

When Jean Paul greeted her at breakfast with his usual warmth and exuberance, she forced a smile and attempted to return it as best she could, but judging by the slight falter in his expression, she hadn’t been as convincing as she had hoped. Playacting had never been her strong suit.

Shortly after the meal had finished and people began making their way out to fulfill their various tasks, Freya excused herself and made a beeline for Aceline, who was heading toward the door to the rotunda.

Josephine had informed Freya during their early morning meeting that she had heard back from one of her contacts in Orlais. The Marchands, it appeared, did indeed hold contracts which indentured most of their servants for a five-year period. Based on what Mariel had told her in the garden, her contract should have ended two years ago.

Freya called after Aceline, who stopped and turned toward her. She took in the bags under Freya’s eyes and her hair, which had been hastily braided, the curls frizzy and frazzled at the edges of her plait.

“Inquisitor,” she said politely. “Good morning to you. I, er… hope you slept well?”

“Not nearly long enough,” Freya said, lifting the mug she had brought with her from the dining hall. “Thankfully an unlimited supply of coffee is one of the perks of the job. I know you were probably headed somewhere, but if you have a moment, I wonder if I might speak with you.”

Lady Marchand blanched ever so slightly, apparently less than keen on another frank conversation with Freya, who felt some satisfaction at this. If anything, Aceline could probably use a little more discomfort in her life.

“Oh. Yes, of course. I sent Mariel to my chambers for some things, she was to meet me in the library. Would that be an acceptable place to talk, or do we need to go somewhere else?”

Lady Marchand looked like she was hoping against a completely private audience, and Freya was actually glad of an excuse to do things in a more public location. Should the conversation go south, she hoped that Aceline would be less likely to cause a scene.

“The library would be perfect.”

 

As they crested the top of the steps into the dim circular balcony that housed the keep’s collection of books, they passed Dorian, who was running a slender finger along the worn leather spines on a shelf near the window where he could usually be found studying. He caught Freya’s eye, one eyebrow arcing skyward as he observed who was accompanying her.

She took a seat at a table just outside the little alcove, gesturing for Aceline to do the same, and among the dull scrape of the chairs, Freya felt certain she could hear the mage’s boots sidling along the rug he’d been standing on, positioning himself to listen in. The corner of her mouth twitched, and she cleared her throat.

“I spoke with Commander Rutherford last night and he filled me in on your conversation yesterday. I must say, I was pleasantly surprised to hear that I had such an impact on you.”

Aceline fiddled with her skirts, arranging them around her legs and then crossing her hands in her lap.

“He tells me you often have that effect,” she said, looking up at Freya and giving her a small smile.

Hurried footsteps echoed up from the stairwell, and both women turned to see Mariel's blonde head materialize at the top, an armful of papers and a quill in her hand.

“Your Worship,” she said, her words coming out in a breathless half-whisper as she nodded politely to Freya. She turned to Aceline, holding out the items she’d brought. “Here are all your notes, m’lady, just as you requested. You didn’t mention the quill, but I wasn’t sure if the library had any and I thought you might need it.”

Aceline took the papers and the elegantly filigreed silver pen from Mariel, who reached into her pocket once her hands were free and pulled out a bottle of ink as well, which she set on the table in front of Lady Marchand.

“Thank you, Mariel,” Aceline said, her voice much warmer in addressing the elf than Freya had ever heard previously. “You may feel free to browse the books while the Inquisitor and I talk.”

“Actually,” Freya cut in as Mariel turned to leave, “this concerns Mariel, as well. I would very much like for her to stay.”

"Oh," Aceline said quietly, her eyebrows lifting a fraction of an inch, and even in the low light of the library, Freya could see that her face had paled again. "Well, in that case, you may have a seat."

They watched as Mariel pulled out the chair next to her, looking equal parts curious and worried as she sat. Aceline turned her expectant gaze back to Freya, who sat up a little straighter as she spoke again.

“I’ve asked you both for an audience because I would like to offer Mariel the opportunity to come and work for the Inquisition, as my personal assistant and apprentice.”

From behind them in the little alcove came the sound of a heavy book being fumbled and dropped. Freya suppressed a snort of laughter—she hadn’t informed Dorian of this part of the plan.

Lady Marchand looked aghast for a brief second but quickly recovered, her hands now interlocking and coming to rest on the tabletop. Freya went on.

“Ambassador Montilyet informs me that most of your staff are indentured for five years, and I believe, based on a conversation I had with Mariel shortly after your arrival, that she has been with you for seven?”

Aceline nodded.

“That is correct.”

“So, if my understanding of these arrangements is correct, that means she should be free to take another job at this point, without involving a solicitor and a lot of tedious paperwork?”

“That is also correct.”

“Well then,” Freya said, reclining in her chair so that her shoulders touched the backrest, “that makes this a lot easier.”

She lifted her mug to her lips and took a drink of her now lukewarm coffee. Mariel was looking between the women with an expression of disbelief on her face. Aceline frowned.

“I am not sure Mariel has the, er... _qualifications_ necessary to apprentice as Inquisitor,” she said, frowning.

Freya laughed.

“No, Lady Marchand, you misunderstand,” she explained. “I don’t want her to learn my duties as _Inquisitor_. I want to teach her the healing arts. We could make very good use of someone else with that skillset, both here at Skyhold and on missions. And she has already shown herself to be a hard worker, a fast learner, and good at anticipating needs and taking initiative.”  
  
Freya gestured at the quill and ink bottle on the table.

“Ah,” said Aceline, nodding. “I see. Well, that is an... interesting proposition.”

Freya could tell she wasn’t particularly keen on losing her handmaid, but of course, that opinion wasn’t the important one.

“Mariel,” she said, turning to look at the other elf, “would you like to come and work for me?”

Mariel was still glancing from one woman to the other, eyes as big as saucers.

“But who would attend to Lady Marchand?”

“While I have no doubt that you are an invaluable help to your mistress, I am quite certain that she could find a suitable replacement,” Freya said, giving her a gentle smile. “You would be allowed to assist her in preparing for the return journey to Orlais, and then you would begin your work with the Inquisition shortly after that. We can have any of your remaining possessions sent here from the Marchands' estate.”

There was a pause as Mariel considered the offer.

“It would mean leaving my home country,” she replied after a moment, uncertainty in her voice and the ghost of a frown on her lips. “I have many friends at the estate. Among the other servants, I mean.”

“You will be given enough time away from your duties to take a trip home three times a year to visit your family and friends, as our work schedule permits it,” Freya said. “And I think you will find that we would offer a significant pay increase, as well.”

Mariel looked to Aceline, who pursed her lips.

“It is your decision, Mariel,” she said, giving a little shrug. “We have already discussed how things will be changing at the estate, but if you feel you would be more fulfilled working here at Skyhold, you are free to make that choice. It is a worthy cause.”

Freya smiled gently and raised her eyebrows as Mariel’s gaze fell on her again.

“What do you say, _ara'ni?”_

Mariel took a deep breath, glancing back at Aceline with a hesitant expression one more time before nodding.

“I—yes, I would be honored to work for the Inquisition, Your Worship.”

Freya clapped her hands.

“Wonderful!” she exclaimed, her smile widening. “It will be an honor to have you. If you would like to take some time to go visit with Josephine, she can draw up the paperwork for your employment and explain all the details about your pay, living quarters, that sort of thing. She should be expecting you, you can go on down now if you like.”

Mariel stood, still looking a bit shocked but immensely pleased. She turned to Aceline, her bright smile fading a little at the sight of Lady Marchand's expression.

“I hope you don’t take offense, m’lady. It’s just… I couldn’t possibly pass up a chance to work for the _Inquisition_. I won’t get another opportunity like this again in all my life.”

Aceline gave her a strained smile.

“None taken, Mariel,” she said softly. “I understand.”

Mariel thanked Freya and gave them a little bow before bustling off toward the stairs, and Freya took another sip of her coffee before addressing Aceline again.

“I appreciate you handling that with such grace. I was worried there might be more of a disagreement about it.”

“Well, it’s not as though I have the power to stop her even if I wanted to,” said Aceline with a shrug. “But I also understand that, compared to what she has known, working at Skyhold must seem like a fairy tale. She will be happier here.”

Freya smiled.

“I certainly hope so. Will you be able to find a new handmaid on short notice?”

“Oh, I expect so. I can probably promote one of my chambermaids to her position. In any case, I shall make do.”

“Good,” said Freya, standing and pushing her chair back in. “And if I may make a suggestion?”

“Yes?”

“Treat the next one kindly and you may just find that she doesn’t ever want to leave.”

With that, she turned to head back through to the rotunda, passing by Dorian’s alcove on her way out. He shook his head as he caught her eye again, smirking. She tipped him a sly wink, then started down the stairs, grinning to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tuast'enal_ = A new beginning


	21. Un Cheveu Sur la Soupe

“Hard to believe it’ll finally be over tomorrow.”

Freya looked up from her position on the settee where she was tugging on her boots.

“You sound almost disappointed,” she told Cullen. “Want me to ask them to stay another week?”

“Don’t you _dare_ , or I’ll throw myself off this mountain.”

She let out a huff of laughter, pulling the laces taught and tying them with nimble fingers. Then, standing, she crossed to the mirror to inspect herself.

Josephine had immediately accepted Freya’s suggestion that the farewell dinner should be a casual affair, unlike the welcome feast had been—especially in light of the fact that there was a good chance of confrontation and they all needed to be able to move quickly in case of an escalation. She tried to imagine herself taking down anyone in the green velvet monstrosity now hidden at the back of her closet, and those improbably high heels. On a different night, one with less tension hanging in the air, she might've laughed at the thought.

She did allow herself a little smile as she admired her own reflection. In contrast to their first formal dinner with the Orlesian delegates, she looked _very_ visibly Dalish tonight, dressed in a clean but relatively simple linen tunic with a bit of embellishment around the collar. It had been her mother’s, one she’d purchased from a market stall at the last Arlathvhen they’d attended together, the embroidery carefully stitched by elven hands from another clan, a beautiful relic of a more peaceful time.

Cullen’s reflection materialized alongside her, and she felt him brush aside her long, red curls. Something slipped over her collarbones, and she looked up to see him fastening her brother’s necklace at her nape.

“Aron’s halla, to help you feel brave,” he told her. “Not that you need it.”

She touched the little metal pendant, tracing her fingers over the pointy intertwining horns and the long, slender legs.

Why did everyone always assume bravery was her default state? She’d gone from being a glorified village herbalist to the most important figurehead in Thedas, and the only person who could close fade rifts that were presently letting in legions of demons among the commonfolk. As if that weren’t pressure enough, she also had an ancient darkspawn Magister breathing down her neck, trying to destroy the world. The last thing she felt most days was _brave_.

But she smiled at him in spite of that, appreciating the confidence he had in her and the loving way in which it had been expressed.

“Thank you, _ma’nehn_.”

She turned, straightening Cullen’s furry mantle over his breastplate.

“You seem much less disgruntled than the last time we were preparing for a fancy dinner,” he noted, gazing down at her.

“It helps to feel more like _myself_ , instead of some paper doll that people get to dress up as they please.” She crossed to her desk and began tucking blades of all sizes into various hiding spots on her person, prompting a smirk from Cullen.

“I’ve never seen a paper doll that came with that many knives.”

“This is the special ‘Orlesian Coup’ edition,” she replied, grinning. She slid one into her boot and then straightened. “Ready?”

He nodded, drawing a deep breath and offering his arm.

“Let’s do this.”

 

* * *

 

 

Despite the more casual atmosphere, it was obvious from the smells emanating from the dining hall that Donatien had not put any less effort into her cooking for this meal. Tonight’s spread included broiled leg of lamb garnished with fresh rosemary, platters of baked fish with perfectly crisp, golden brown skins, and several pork crown roasts as the centerpieces of each table. 

As delicious as all of it looked, Freya found herself unable to drum up an appetite. Her stomach squirmed as she took her seat, the rest of the table following suit immediately, resulting in a loud chorus of chair legs skidding across the wooden floor. She then gestured for everyone to begin helping themselves, allowing Cullen—who was seated at her right side tonight—to pile a bit of fish and some vegetables onto her plate.

“Your cook has outdone herself yet again,” Jean Paul said with a smile, pulling a rib off one of the crown roasts. “I must say, Ferelden cuisine has surpassed my expectations. I may have to send for some recipes once I get home to my estate, though I am not sure our chef has ever even _seen_ a turnip before…” 

“I’m sure Donatien would be happy to share, in the name of intercultural unity,” said Freya with a small smile. “Feel free to send a _raven_ with any requests you’d like.” 

She leaned on the word, looking for a reaction from Jean Paul, but he continued piling food onto his plate without any indication that he’d noticed.

“Perhaps, if you don’t have any ravens of your _own_ , Marquise Briala could loan you one of hers?”

Jean Paul did look up at this, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“But of course we have ravens, Lady Inquisitor. How do you think we communicate? We can’t send _coursiers_ for everything, that would take ages.” 

Briala had cottoned on to the insinuation, though, judging by how thin her mouth had gone. She moved a forkful of lamb around on her plate, avoiding everyone’s eye. 

“I just thought, since you had to borrow one a couple of nights ago, perhaps the Lefebvres didn’t keep a rookery.”

That did the trick. 

Jean Paul’s hand froze halfway to his plate with a ladle full of thick brown gravy, his face blanching in the warm light from the braziers lining the hall.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you m—”

“There’s no point in feigning ignorance, Jean Paul,” Leliana cut in. “My agent saw you sneaking through the castle in the dead of night to send Briala's bird.” 

He set the ladle back down, his flesh going from white to a deep, pink flush. 

“And we’ve taken note of your relentless flirting with the Inquisitor,” Cullen accused, pointing at him with a dull knife that was still streaked with butter. “Trying to cause a rift by seducing her, are you? Well, it’s not going to w—" He broke off, staring. "I’m sorry, what is it that’s so _funny_ about this?”

At Cullen’s words, Briala and Jean Paul had exchanged a fleeting bewildered glance, and then Briala had snorted and the two of them had erupted into a fit of laughter.

Completely nonplussed, Freya and her advisors watched the Orlesian spymaster and her ambassador try to gather themselves, pausing to take a deep breath each and then falling into another round of giggling, Jean Paul placing a hand on Briala’s shoulder and leaning on her for support.

When they had finally managed to find their composure, Jean Paul looked up at their baffled expressions, his face still split into a grin and tears of mirth shining at the rims of his eyelids. 

“My apologies,” he said, dabbing at himself with a cloth napkin. “It’s just… the idea of me wanting to seduce the Lady Inquisitor is _quite_ amusing, to be frank.”

Freya raised her eyebrows, feeling a little offended at this apparent slight. Jean Paul, catching her look, raised a hand and quickly backpedaled.

“Please, do not take that to mean that you are not attractive or desirable. I do find you quite striking, and you have shown yourself to be a kind, intelligent woman with a wit as sharp as your blades. It’s just… ah, how should I put this…”

He gave Briala a glance, and she stepped in to help explain.

“Jean Paul will flirt with anyone who stands still long enough. He’s incorrigible. But, well… let’s just say that if he were to pick any of you to actually _seduce_ , it would probably be your Commander.” 

She gestured at Cullen, who looked taken aback, lowering the butterknife and cocking his head.

“You mean you…”

“Prefer the romantic attentions of _men?"_ Jean Paul asked. "Yes. I do.”

“Then you weren’t orchestrating some grand plan to destabilize the Inquisition?” Freya asked, quirking an eyebrow. “Why sneak out while everyone was asleep to send an _innocent_ letter, though?”

“Ah,” said Jean Paul, nodding. “Yes, I can certainly see why that would have raised suspicions. And I really should have known that we would be watched during our stay. It was a foolish oversight on my part.” He paused, taking a breath. “That was a letter to Henri." At Freya's questioning look, he added, "My lover.”

“And you didn’t want us to see you send it because…?”

“Well, Lady Inquisitor, my, er… _romantic entanglements_ are not well-known in Orlais. People are able to look past such peculiarities of character in citizens of common birth, and of course, nobody would be so bold as to question the Empress about her  _boudoir_ activities. But for a lesser noble, it is often still a source of much shame, especially for an only son like myself. I am expected to marry well, to a wife who will give the Lefebvres an heir. If my father found out about my relationship, there would be a great deal of strife. Likely, I would be stripped of my title and unwelcome in my own family. Henri and I have gone to a lot of trouble to keep it quiet. Only Empress Celene and Marquise Briala were aware. Up until now, of course.”

There was a soft sniff from further down the table, and Freya’s eyes flickered to Dorian, who had turned his head away, looking anywhere but at the group at the center of the table. 

“I am sure,” continued Jean Paul with a wry grin, “that your Nightengale is concealing a great deal of glee at the moment, knowing she can wield such a secret for the Inquisition.”

Leliana furrowed her brow. “Not at all, Ambassador,” she said with a frown.

“We would _never_ use such information as a tool for our own gains,” Josephine said, shaking her head. “I would be lying if I said that I have not used the romantic affairs of nobles against them in certain circumstances, but in a situation like this, well…” She sent a fleeting glance Dorian’s way as well. “Let’s just say that we are not interested in exploiting this particular type of secret for political clout. And I can assure you that any of the Inquisition's staff will be held to strict confidentiality on the matter, as well.”

Jean Paul looked relieved, and after a brief pause, he resumed ladling gravy onto his pile of mashed potatoes.

“I cannot tell you how much I appreciate hearing that,” he said, heaving a sigh that ended in a small chuckle. “I must say, I am still amused at the idea of such an elaborate seduction scheme. Though, to be fair, it would be a  _very_ Orlesian thing to do.”

Freya felt a gentle hand on her shoulder and was surprised to find Dorian standing behind her. He leaned down to whisper in her ear, his voice still sounding a bit thick with emotion. 

“I thought you’d like to know that Bull slipped off just now, while you and Jean Paul had the attention of the rest of the table. I'm not sure where to.”

Leaning forward, she saw that he was, indeed, correct—on the opposite end of the table from Dorian, there was an empty chair where the Iron Bull had been seated. In fact, that end of the table had _two_ conspicuously empty chairs... It took her a moment to realize who the occupant of the other should have been. 

“Briala,” she said, her head snapping in the spymaster’s direction.

“Yes, Inquisitor?”

“Where is Bastien?”

“Oh,” said Briala, her brows raised, glancing at the empty chair. “He let me know he would be a little late to dinner. I’m surprised he’s not here yet, actually. He’s so quiet all the time anyway, and I was so distracted with the discussion at hand that I hadn’t even noticed. I’m sure he’ll be along soo—”

But the end of her thought was interrupted by Bull’s thundering bellow and the distant but distinct ringing sound of metal clashing against metal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Un Cheveu Sur la Soupe_ = "A hair in the soup," part of a French idiom indicating an awkward or embarrassing moment in time


	22. It's Always the Quiet Ones

The sound of a dozen pairs of boots racing across the floor echoed off the stone walls as Freya and her friends ran from the dining hall toward the source of the commotion.

As they approached the hallway that led to the war room, Leliana cried out, spotting a figure lying on the floor.

“Jester!”

Freya caught a glimpse of blonde hair and a spreading pool of red as she ran past the agent, who lay sprawled on her back near the door to the hall. She pointed to the unconscious woman on the floor, turning to glance over her shoulder.

“Solas!” she shouted, and the elven mage nodded his understanding, skidding to a halt beside Leliana and bending down to check on Jester.

Freya’s pulse pounded in her ears as she flung the door open, feet hammering against the ground as she sprinted down the hall, the yelling and clashing of weapons getting louder. Fast as ever, she outstripped the rest of the group with ease and plowed ahead through the open door of the war room.

Inside, Bull was battling Bastien, the former wielding an axe and the latter darting around like a menacing, murderous hummingbird, a dagger clutched in his hand. Freya launched a throwing knife at the bard, but he ducked just as she let go and the blade flew across the war table instead, scattering pieces and sending them cascading onto the floor with a clatter. She couldn't risk trying again, afraid of landing her mark on Bull by mistake.

The two men kept circling, allowing Freya to position herself at the bard’s flank, and she ran for him and leaped, landing on his back as he threw a handful of some sort of powder into Bull’s face.

The Qunari staggered, crying out in agony and dropping his axe as he pawed at his burning eyes.

Bastien turned and slammed himself backward into a bookcase, Freya taking the force of the blow as he pinned her between his back and the wooden shelves. Pain shot through her as Bastien reached up to grab her hands, but she was too quick for him. She'd already slipped a hand into the only place within reach where she had hidden a blade—her boot— and stuck the point to the bard’s throat.

“Move and you die,” she hissed in his ear. By now, the rest of the crowd had come through the door, and Cullen marched up to Bastien, unsheathing his sword.

“Drop your weapon!” he commanded, and when Bastien appeared to hesitate, he barked, “Now!”

The dagger fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Now move forward, _slowly_.”

Bastien took a small step forward, and Freya slid down to the floor and out from behind him, groaning and clutching her ribs.

“Freya, are you—?” Cullen began, noting her face, twisted with pain.

“I’ll be fine.” She looked past Cullen’s shoulder at Briala, who—judging by the shocked expression on her face—had not been in on the plan.

“Bastien!” Briala gasped. “What is the meaning of this?”

“He was trying to steal information, files,” Bull groaned, gesturing at a pile of papers on the floor near one of the other bookcases. Dorian was kneeling next to him, rinsing his eyes with a goblet of water. “Been acting dodgy all day, Boss. When I saw he didn’t show up to dinner, I followed my hunch. I’d have told you, but if the rest of them were in on it, I didn’t want to tip them off. By the time I caught up, he’d already shaken his tail. She’s out cold in the hall. Not sure if she’s just knocked out or… or what.”

“You knew nothing about this?” Freya asked Briala, searching the other elf’s eyes with a piercing green stare.

“I swear, this had _nothing_ to do with me, or the Crown,” she said, raising her hands in surrender. “Bastien is acting on his own. On whose orders, though, I could not say.”

“Well,” Freya said, wincing as she turned to face Bastien again, “I think we ought to find out. Cullen, have your men arrest him and prepare him for questioning.”

Several Inquisition soldiers had materialized in the hall outside the door, on the other side of the bottleneck of people now crowding around the entrance. Cullen motioned for them to step aside, and Ser Barris and another officer stepped forward through the crowd, restraining Bastien and then frog-marching him back out the door.

Bull was still seated on the floor with his chest heaving. He blinked rapidly, able to see again through his red, streaming eyes.

“I’m fine, kadan,” he told Dorian, waving a hand at Freya. “Boss needs you more now.”

Dorian got up, crossing the room to where Freya was leaning against the war table, gritting her teeth.

“Let me look,” he told her, and she did her best to straighten. “Okay if I touch?”

She nodded, and Dorian put a hand on her ribs, purple light dancing and sparkling beneath his fingertips.

“A cracked rib,” he told her. “No, make that _two_ cracked ribs. I can fix it the breaks, but it’ll still be painful for a few days.”

Freya nodded again, and the mage closed his eyes, murmuring a string of words in Tevene. She felt the familiar spreading heat as the bones knit themselves painfully back together, and she let out a strangled moan from between her teeth.

“Sorry, pet,” Dorian said softly. “Almost done.”

After another agonizing moment, he took his hand away, supporting her elbow as she straightened.

“Better now?”

“Yes,” she told him breathlessly. “Thank you, Dorian.” She turned to look at Cullen, who was giving her the concerned gaze he always did when she was hurt. “I’m going to go check on Leliana and Jester. Once we’ve got everything in hand, I want the advisors and Briala to meet me in the interrogation chamber.”

By the time Freya reached Leliana in the hall, Jester had been laid out on a stretcher. Freya still couldn’t tell whether the injured spy would be headed for the infirmary, or worse. She jogged over.

“Leli, is she—?”

“Not dead, no,” Leliana replied. Her profile betrayed a grim expression, her mouth drawn into a frown. “Solas says he thinks she’ll pull through, but the next 24 hours will be the most crucial. She was stabbed through the gut, and she hit her head when she fell.”

Jester’s face was still slack, her eyes closed and her skin pallid where it wasn’t smeared with sticky, drying blood. Freya felt her hands ball into fists. This woman was one of their best agents and had been among some of the first boots on the ground to come to Clan Lavellan’s aid in the attack.

“I’ll check on her before bed, once we get this all sorted out,” Freya promised. “Clara and I will come up with a plan. She’ll be well cared for.”

“What happened?” Leliana asked, turning to her and noting the way Freya’s hand still rested on her aching ribs. “You look hurt.”

“I’ll weather,” she said. “Bastien was in the war room, rifling through our files. Bull caught him, and there was a fight.”

“No doubt he was hoping to go unnoticed long enough to send valuable information along to whoever he’s working for.” She paused, locking her gaze on Freya’s. “Do you suspect Briala?”

“Honestly? No. She seemed genuinely surprised. I think whatever is going on here is independent of her or Celene’s involvement.”

“What’s the plan? I saw Delrin and another of Cullen’s men dragging Bastien down to the dungeons.”

Freya winced again, looking back across the hall where the throng of people still milled around near the hallway, talking excitedly.

Aceline was wide-eyed, clutching her necklace as Jean Paul passed a goblet of wine into her shaking hand and tried to calm her with soothing words. Apparently she was not used to this kind of excitement at the dinner table. Brother Marceau was standing next to Mother Giselle, both of their heads bowed in quiet prayer. None of the rest of the Orlesians appeared suspect, at least from what she could tell.

“I need to go take a swig of elfroot tincture,” she finally said, trying to take shallow breaths that didn't make her ribcage feel like it was being pulled apart. “And then we’re going to find out who’s pulling this marionette’s strings.”


	23. The Man Behind the Curtain

The interrogation room at Skyhold was a drafty, uninviting chamber off the main hall of cells in the keep’s dungeon. The stone walls were bare, save for two sconces that cast a warm glow over a chair bolted to the floor at the center of the back wall.

By the time Freya and her team of advisors arrived, Bastien had already been seated, his arms shackled in front of him and his legs restrained against the chair. A guard showed them in, and Freya surveyed the bard with her arms folded over her chest. She noticed Bull had blacked the man’s eye and given him more than a few gashes for his trouble.

 _Good_ , she mused to herself as the image of Jester, unconscious on that stretcher, popped into her mind. _I hope they hurt._

“Would you like a chair, Lady Inquisitor?”

She turned to the guard, who was standing with his hand on the doorknob next to her.

“Thank you, Gregory, but that won’t be necessary.”

He gave her a small bow and ducked out, closing the heavy iron-framed door behind him.

“So,” she began, facing Bastien once again. “Would you care to offer an explanation, or do you plan to make this difficult for everyone?”

The man smirked, tossing his head to swing a curl of fiery orange hair off his pale forehead.

“Your reputation for cleverness is renowned, Inquisitor. Let us see how far you can get on your own.”

“Mind your cheek, traitor,” Cullen growled, flexing his hands into fists.

“Oh, do keep your dog in check, Your Worship. Poor training is as much a reflection on the kennelmaster as it is on the _mongrel_ himself.”

Cullen took a step toward him, but Freya stuck out a hand and grabbed the Commander’s wrist.

“Not worth the energy, _ma’nehn_.”

Bastien laughed, then cocked his head.

“Speaking of your pets, how is the ox? I do hope my little concoction doesn’t cause any permanent damage. He’s only got one good eye left, after all.”

“Powdered rashvine nettle,” Freya said, nodding. “I admit, that was clever. I’ll have to remember that one. But if you think something like that is enough to harm a Qunari longterm, you need to do better research on your enemy’s weaknesses.”

She held out a hand to Josephine, who passed a messy stack of papers into her hands—the files that had been gathered from the war room floor.

“And speaking of researching your enemies, let’s see what information you were so keen on stealing, shall we? Since you suddenly seem so chatty about everything _except_ what we’re here to talk about.”

She leafed through the papers as Bastien shifted in his seat, still looking up at her with that smug expression.

“My immediate future travel plans,” she said, shuffling the sheets from the front of the pile to the back as she read them. “And… hold on, most of this isn’t even about the Inquisition. Why would you be gathering intel on your own countrymen?”

“Your Worship?” asked Briala, looking quizzical.

“Most of these files are about _you_ , Briala. And the Empress, and the rest of the Royal Court. Everything we’ve gathered since the Inquisition was formed.”

The elven spymaster’s head snapped back toward Bastien.

“But why turn on me now? You’ve been working for me since before the war started. Why would you want to dig up dirt on your own Empress? Unless…" She narrowed her eyes, a frown creasing her brow. "Unless you’ve always been _his_?”

Bastien’s smirk widened at this.

“Always been whose?” asked Cullen, looking lost.

“The disgraced Grand Duke, Gaspard de Chalons, if I had to guess” Freya answered, handing the papers back to Josephine, whose face showed an expression of dawning comprehension.

“Of _course_ ,” she breathed, looking from Bastien to Briala and back again. “He planted you in Briala’s service to spy on the elven resistance, and then when Briala and Celene were reunited and he was exiled…”

“He had a perfectly-positioned spy already within the court,” Leliana finished, looking both angry and, if Freya wasn’t misreading her expression, almost impressed.

He raised his hands and clapped slowly, the manacles that bound his wrists clanking rhythmically as he did.

“Well done,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Though I confess myself disappointed, Briala. It’s taken you _two years_ to figure it out, and this rabbit got there in about ten sec—”

Cullen had swung before anyone had even registered his movement toward Bastien. His fist connected with the bard’s cheek with a dull smack, as though he’d just punched a side of beef. Bastien let out a strangled sound of surprise, pressing his hand to his jaw. He straightened after a moment, smiling at Cullen as he spit a mouthful of blood in his direction, which sent a single white molar bouncing and clattering across the floor.

“Feel better now, _cur?”_

“I hope you don’t think anyone will stop him if he tries to do it again,” Freya said, green eyes glaring. “Be glad he saves his chainmail gauntlets for battle.”

“You’ve got your answers, why don’t we just get the sentencing over with?” Bastien asked, turning to her. “No need to prolong the suspense.”

Freya actually smiled at this, crossing her hands over her chest.

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong,” she told him. “Although you were caught stealing Inquisition intel and I would be well within my rights to pass judgment on you myself, I owe the Crown a favor. You’ll be going back home to Orlais for your sentencing, and I think you’ll find that Empress Celene is much less inclined toward mercy than I am.”

Opening the door, she stuck her head out and motioned for Gregory, who came jogging over and popped his head in.

“Yes, milady?”

“Have this man put in a cell until they depart tomorrow morning,” she said, then turned back to look again at the sneering bard. “And wipe that self-satisfied grin off your face already. You’re chained to a chair because you _lost_.”

They left Gregory and the other soldiers to deal with Bastien and walked back in the direction of the main hall. Cullen grunted, flexing his fingers.

“Everything alright?” Freya asked quietly.

“If we could just hurry it along a little bit,” he said under his breath. “I think I need to ice my hand.”

She let out a snort at this, shaking her head as they made their way up the steps.

 

* * *

 

By the time Josephine had gotten everyone corralled back into the dining hall, the food had all gone stone cold. Nobody seemed to mind, though, as most everyone was too occupied discussing the excitement of the evening to notice what they were eating anymore.

“I suppose we owe you something of an apology,” Freya said to Jean Paul as she grabbed her fork. She found that she was ravenous now after the exertion of her tussle with Bastien in the war room, and the sight of her plate of baked trout had set her mouth salivating. “Turns out we were right to be suspicious, but we were directing it at the wrong people.”

“My dear Lady Inquisitor,” he replied with a smile as he took up his abandoned pork rib, “let me assure you that when dealing with Orlesians, one is _always_ right to be suspicious.” This was met with laughter from everyone at the table, and he grinned wider as he went on. “Anyway, no harm done. If anything, it was a thrilling end to a very pleasant week. And it will make a great story to tell back home.”

“I must confess, I am still in a state of shock,” said Aceline, shaking her head. “He seemed so _pleasant_. Quiet, but very much a gentleman.”

“Well,” replied Varric with a shrug, “isn’t that what being a bard is all about? If he’d let on that he was a dirty thieving traitor, he wouldn’t have gotten very far.”

“Thank goodness for your Qunari agent,” said Briala. “I shudder to think what Bastien might have gotten away with if he hadn't been there to stop him.”

Freya looked down the table at Bull, who had moved his plate to his usual place beside Dorian. None of the Orlesians seemed to have taken notice. If they had, they certainly hadn't said anything and didn’t seem to care. She cleared her throat and stood. 

“You know, I think our man deserves a toast.”

Bull looked up at her, his eye still red-rimmed and angry.

“Boss, there’s really no need—”

But Freya was already clinking her wine goblet with her fork, and the rumble of conversation among all the tables in the hall died down, everyone turning to look at her.

“I would like us all to raise a glass to the Iron Bull for his quick thinking and brave actions this evening.”

Krem’s voice called out, “Way to go, Chief!” and a loud cheer erupted from the rest of the Chargers at this. Bull waved a hand, looking bashful.

Freya lifted her wine glass high as she looked back down at him with a smile. “You are a true asset to the Inquisition, friend. _To Bull!”_

“To Bull!” the hall all called in unison, and everyone took a drink in his honor.

Freya sat back down, eager to finally tuck into her fish. Cullen was awkwardly trying to eat with his left hand, jostling her with his elbow as he rested the other hand in a bowl of ice. After getting a bite of her own food, she took the fork from him and speared a hunk of lamb onto it.

“Here,” she said, offering to him. He rolled his eyes and opened his mouth, and she popped the lamb into it. He grinned at her as he chewed, enjoying the sound of her soft giggle as she took a drink of wine. Glancing down the table, he caught Aceline giving them both a small smile which seemed quite genuine, if not a little sad.

He took a deep breath, looking around at his friends eating their meal, talking with their guests, and truly enjoying themselves for probably the first time all week. 

“You know,” he said, leaning over to speak softly in Freya’s ear, “maybe they’re not so bad, Orlesians.”

She snorted around a mouthful of fish.

“I wouldn’t go that far, _Commandant_. I still haven’t forgiven them for the snails.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter to go!


	24. Abelas'reel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Abelas'reel_ = The Cleansing of Sorrows

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

Freya gave Cullen the same suspicious look she’d been wearing for most of the afternoon, ever since he’d let her know that he had something special planned this evening.

“That sort of defeats the purpose of a _surprise,_ love.”

He smiled at her, allowing his eyes to trail slowly from the red curls falling over her shoulders to her slender frame and the flowy sage-colored fabric that skimmed over it. It was much too cold for such a dress, the neckline shallow but wide enough to show the hollows of her freckled collarbones, but he had put no stipulations on what sort of attire she should choose—only that it be something that made her feel beautiful. And so, she had chosen her mother’s gown, which had been made for the warm springtime temperatures of the Green Dales. She did look beautiful, so much so that he had to remind himself to draw a breath.

Anyway, he reasoned, it would be a very short walk, and that’s what cloaks were for.

It had been a week since the Orlesian delegates finally started their long journey home, with a contingent of Inquisition soldiers coming along to guard the padlocked, iron-framed wagon that would be transporting Bastien to the prison in Val Royeaux to await sentencing.

Things at the keep had, more or less, returned to normal.

Jester was still in the infirmary but was expected to make a full recovery, and Leliana had increased the security protecting their intel reports, with Vivienne providing certain magical wards to keep the information safe from anyone but the Inquisitor herself and her three advisors.

Josephine, relieved at finally being done with planning around her hosting obligations during the delegation’s visit, returned to her usual diplomatic duties. Things had still been a bit strained between the Ambassador and Freya for a few days, but it seemed they had finally buried the hatchet after a long talk in Josephine’s office. What exactly was said behind closed doors Cullen couldn’t be sure, but everyone was pleased to see that the two women had promptly returned to their usual genial interactions afterward.

Mariel had been settling into her new role at Skyhold, learning her way around the castle and trying to get to know her new employers and the fellow staff members she’d be sharing so much of her life with now. It would still be a couple of weeks before the Inquisitor made her way to Emprise du Lion, and in that interim, she would be busy teaching her new apprentice the basics of brewing essential potions and performing simple first aid, while he made preparations to hand the reigns to Barris for the duration of their trip.

For now, though, at least for tonight, they could take a moment for themselves, laying aside their duties and grabbing a rare chance at the kind of intimacy that was nearly impossible in a castle full of dozens of other people.

“Are you ready?” Cullen asked, offering her cloak. She turned and allowed him to wrap it around her shoulders.

“How should I know if I’m ready if I don’t even know what to be ready _for?”_

He gave her a crooked grin.

“If you feel as lovely as you look, and you’re hungry, I’d say you’re ready.” He held something up. “I’m afraid I can’t let you peek, though.”

In his hand was a length of silk, patterned in a marbled mixture of varying purple shades with strands of gold woven throughout.

Freya put a hand to her mouth, stifling a snort as her cheeks flushed pink.

“Cullen, where did you find that?”

“In your drawer. You asked me to toss you a pair of clean smalls and they were just… in there. Why do you have two of them, anyway? Seems strange to own more than one of the exact same scarf...”

“They were a Satinalia gift,” she said. “From Dorian and Bull.”

“I never see you wear them.”

“It’s not that kind of scarf, _ma’nehn.”_ She looked at his confused expression, doing her best not to laugh. “I’ll explain some other time. Come on, if you’re going to blindfold me, let’s get on with it.”

She allowed him to slip the strip of silk over her eyes, tying it at the back of her head.

“That okay? Not too tight?”

Freya shook her head and felt his hand brush against her forearm, slipping through to link his elbow with hers.Unable to see now, she allowed herself to be led down the steps of their chamber and out into the main hall, the visible parts of her face still looking dubious as ever.

“Going to be heading outside for a moment, so prepare for a brisk walk,” he told her as he approached the door to the ramparts. She heard the creak of the hinges and felt an accompanying blast of chilly air as they stepped through, as well as something icy and wet lightly kissing her skin.

“Is it snowing?” she asked as they made their way across the top of the castle wall, wind whistling between the crenelations in the stone parapet.

“A little,” said Cullen’s voice beside her. She heard him pull another door open, and she recognized the familiar smell of his office—leather books, firewood, and the lingering scent of oakmoss and elderflower from the liniment she mixed for his aches.

“What are we doing _here?”_ she asked.

“Just passing through. Almost there.”

They crossed the room and back out the opposite door into the cold again, Freya’s mind spinning with curiosity at where exactly she was being led. At last, the creak of another opening door met her ears, and they stepped into a room that was deliciously warm, with a very pleasant, savory aroma hanging in the air.

“Let me take your cloak,” he said, and she reached up to unfasten it and shrug it off for him to hang.

Placing a hand on her hip, she cocked her head to one side.

“Well, do I get to see where we are, or not?” she asked. “And what smells so good?”

She felt his hands at the back of her head, untying the silk scarf with one downward draw of his hand and then pulling it gently away from her eyes.

It was a room she knew well. This was a little-used tower at the keep, one they were still deciding on a permanent use for, but most recently it had housed the remainder of Clan Lavellan’s belongings before they had been sorted and sent off to be donated to alienages across Thedas.

The now-vacant space had been living quarters at one point, and as such there was a small hearth that housed a roaring fire, which was casting its orange glow around the room, illuminating a small table in the center with two chairs placed at opposite sides. The mantlepiece above the fire was decorated with branches of juniper and sprigs of laurel dotted with little white berries, as well as a couple dozen lit beeswax tapers set in simply carved birch candlesticks.

A little crown, also woven from juniper and laurel, hung on the back of one of the chairs. Cullen picked it up and placed it carefully on top of Freya’s head.

“Happy _Abelas’reel_ , Freya.”

It was a clumsy way to phrase it, she knew. The elvhen winter solstice celebration wasn’t necessarily a day when one made merry—at least, not in the way that Satinalia was. And he’d butchered the pronunciation, but she didn’t care—couldn’t _possibly_ care—because he had _remembered._

“Ah-bell- _ahss_ ray- _ell_ ,” she corrected gently, turning to him with a smile.

“Damn. I knew I’d get it wrong.” He dragged his hand over the back of his neck, frowning.

“Don’t be silly,” she said, reaching for his hand. “You’ve gotten so many details _right_. You must’ve done some research.”

“Dorian helped me find a book on elvhen holiday customs in the library, and then he helped me decorate the room. And I asked Bull’s friend, Dalish, for some help as well. She was the one who told me about the salt water.”

Freya looked at the table again and noticed two small cups, one at each place. It was a ritual the elves engaged in before eating the solstice meal. She watched as Cullen took the cups, handing one to her.

“Dalish said we drink the saltwater before our meal, to represent tears, and the sorrows gathered in our hearts.”

Freya nodded.

“There’s a small prayer first,” she said. “ _La’van ar’an mavash, lasa em’an te’silaima, y’lasa em’an reel._ ‘As we drink, let us not forget, but let us release.’”

They both tipped the cups to their lips, swallowing the contents. Freya lowered her hand, looking contemplative as the salty taste lingered on her tongue.

“It seems like such a small cup to hold so many sorrows,” she said softly. She felt Cullen’s thumb brush against her cheek, and she looked up into his eyes. “We’ve always believed the snow melts away and carries all the pain with it, but somehow I don’t think that will hold true for me this year.”

“But you said it yourself, just now, in your prayer. You’re not asking to _forget._ How could you, with all that’s happened? But you’re giving yourself the freedom to make space in your heart to find joy again.”

“I don’t have to look very far for that, _ma’nehn,”_ she told him, and they smiled at one another for a moment before the silence was interrupted by a loud growl from Freya’s stomach.

“I think that’s our cue to eat,” said Cullen with a chuckle, and they took their seats. In the middle of the little table were a basket of bread and a large platter covered with a metal dome. He lifted it, and the savory smell intensified. Two shanks of perfectly cooked, herb-crusted meat rested alongside a large bowl of a variety of cooked vegetables, garnished with pine nuts and flowers.

“Braised boar and Dalish deep forest comfort,” she breathed, and at his nod she let out a long groan of anticipation as she watched him heap food onto her plate. “I haven’t had boar since I left the Clan. This is _perfect,_ Cullen.”

He grinned, passing her the plate.

“Dig in,” he told her, then poured a generous helping of wine for her before serving himself.

They ate for a moment in relative quiet, save for the appreciative moans periodically coming from Freya as she savored the familiar foods. Then she took a long drink from her goblet and asked, “How is Barris feeling about taking over for you while we’re gone? Do you think he’s up to the task of running things for a month?”

“I think he’s a bit nervous,” Cullen said with a shrug, “but that’s just how he is. He never thinks he’s doing as good of a job as he does. He’ll do fine. However—” he reached across the table and covered Freya’s hand with his—“I didn’t set up an intimate solstice dinner for us so that we could talk about _work.”_

She huffed a little laugh at this.

“I feel like we’ve had this conversation a time or two before, but I’ve never been on this end of it,” she replied, and Cullen grinned at her around a mouthful of bread. “All right, _ma’nehn._ No work talk.”

He continued smiling at her as he chewed.

“You look lovely tonight,” he told her once he’d swallowed. “I’d been looking for a reason for you to get to wear that gown.”

“It’s not perfect,” she said, looking down. “It’s entirely too thin for this weather, and I think my _mamae_ filled it out a bit better than I do. But I do like the color.”

Cullen rolled his tongue over his teeth behind his lips, remembering the way he’d seen her scrutinizing her figure in the mirror the night the Orlesians had arrived.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, and the frankness of his tone made Freya pause with a forkful of food in her hand.

“Of course,” she said without hesitating, though her words betrayed a small amount of apprehension.

“You didn’t really think someone like Aceline would be enticing to me, did you?”

She gave him a wry smile at this.

“How could she not be?” she asked. “Aceline is tall and blonde and olive-skinned and beautiful. Not to mention her other _assets_. She’s everything I’m not.”

“Which is precisely why she holds no appeal,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “Though I do have to argue one point— _you_ are beautiful, too. I love your wild red curls, and the way they stick up everywhere when you wake up. I love every last little freckle sprinkled over your skin. I love the way you stretch up on your toes to kiss me, and—” though they were alone, he lowered his voice a little, the corner of his mouth curving upward—“I love the way your breasts perfectly fill my palms when I cup them in my hands.”

 _“Commander!"_  said Freya, putting a hand to her chest in mock astonishment. “I _hardly_ think that’s an appropriate thing to say at the dinner table.”

“Oh, hush,” he told her, grinning wider as a pink tinge colored his cheeks. “You’re the one who’s always telling _me_ to loosen up.”

She smirked at him.

“I do appreciate the compliments,” she said. “And I know you mean them. It’s just… I don’t know. The whole situation was uncomfortable, and then she had to go and be everything society says a man should find desirable. I think most women would have had a little crisis of confidence.”

“Well,” he told her, “I wouldn’t trade you for a whole _harem_ of Acelines.”

She laughed.

 _“Gods,_ can you imagine having to deal with _half a dozen_ of her?”

They both snorted at the thought, then Cullen looked at her with his goblet raised halfway to his mouth.

“So what happens after dinner?” he asked. “Any other rituals we should observe for _Abelas’reel?”_

“Not really, no,” she said. “We mostly just drank _manise_ and wine and then… well, the adults usually got a bit frisky. It’s cold in the woods in the middle of Haring. Have to find some way to stay warm.”

“That absolutely sounds like a tradition we should uphold,” he told her, eyeing her over the rim of the cup as he took a long drink.

“I think that can be arranged.” She gave him an impish smile, picking up her knife and sawing a hunk of meat off the shank on her plate. “Finish your dinner and then we can go back up to our room, and I’ll show you what those scarves are _really_ for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who read, kudosed, commented, and enjoyed this story along with me! Your feedback and enthusiasm kept me going and I am really grateful for all of your support as I finished this piece!
> 
> I will be taking a break from my canon universe writing to work on my modern AU, [Project Ruby](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7864456), which I hope to finish in the next couple of months. It features my beloved Freya and her Cullen, very similar to their canon iterations, but in a modern suspense/thriller setting. If you've enjoyed seeing their relationship here, I would love to have you check it out and hear your thoughts over there!
> 
>  _Ma serannas_ again, whether you are reading this today, tomorrow, or a year from now. <3


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